


internal affairs

by leoandsnake



Series: heron [2]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bottom Connor, Canon Compliant, Cop Connor, Crime Thriller, Detective Thriller, Drug Addiction, Established Relationship, Expanded Canon, Hostage Negotiator Connor, M/M, Multi, Mystery, Smut, Worldbuilding, chloe and north as frontiermen taming the wilds of alaska together, genre-typical darker noir elements, lots of connor and hank father/son stuff, markus trying to radicalize michigan democrats, non-permanent major character death, plot heavy, politician markus, pulp noir
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-01
Updated: 2018-11-06
Packaged: 2019-08-14 06:50:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 59,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16487801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leoandsnake/pseuds/leoandsnake
Summary: In 2041, Connor is an investigator in DPD’s internal affairs department, his boyfriend Markus has been elected to the Michigan House of Representatives, and CyberLife is now a shell company that exists to pay off lawsuits.Connor’s latest case is this: someone on the police force has joined up with an embezzler inside CyberLife, and it’s his job to find out which of his fellow cops is dirty. But the answer is closer to home than he thinks, and he finds himself running out of time to find his suspect before his suspect finds him.





	1. PROLOGUE

__MAY 4, 2040

 

“Connor?” Fowler calls out his open office door. “I’m ready for you.”

Connor squares his shoulders, slips his coin back into his pocket and heads into the captain’s office.

“Have a seat,” Fowler says without looking at him, inclining his head at the chair across from his desk. His face is lit up by his desktop monitor, and his eyes are scanning quickly over whatever he’s looking at. Probably the reports from today.

Connor sits.

A spring storm has been lashing Detroit for the last hour. From where Connor’s sitting, he can watch the rain hit the bullpen windows through Fowler’s glass walls. One of the new android work initiatives has had WR600s planting new greenery everywhere in the city, and there are brand-new trees outside that are being flattened against the windows by the rain. Ghostly green fingers.

In his peripheral vision, Connor realizes his boss is staring at him. He snaps his head to the right.

“Connor,” Fowler says. “What the hell happened tonight?”

“I submitted a full report on the incident earlier this evening, Captain,” Connor says.

It’s 11:22 p.m. right now. The station is mostly empty — everyone on the graveyard shift had gotten their briefing right at 11 and headed out to patrol. The mood is somber among those who are still here. Outside, journalists huddle under black umbrellas in the pouring rain, hassling every cop who steps outside, but they’re all under strict orders not to talk. Connor had avoided this by sneaking in the back entrance. He knows they want to talk to him more than anyone.

Fowler smiles. It’s a tight smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, but his expression is gentle. “I know, I read it. I wanted to hear it in your own words.”

“I arrived on the scene of the hostage situation at the Grosse Pointe apartment complex at seven ten,” Connor says. “Commander Eric Moreland of the fifth precinct had requested me specifically.”

“Yep,” Fowler says.

“His previous hostage negotiator was overwhelmed by the situation and made several tactical errors, which led to the loss of a hostage.”

The hostage taker was a man who became enraged after discovering his wife was cheating. He had come home early from work and stormed into their apartment, which she was running an unlicensed daycare out of. He forced her into the hallway at gunpoint, barricaded the door to their tenth floor apartment, then called DPD and informed them that he was going to shoot one child every hour. He had no demands except for complete press coverage. All he wanted was to ruin his wife’s life.

The scene was a mess. The parents of the children who were being held hostage all lived in the building, and started arriving home from work around six. They had seen the news on the bus, they know what was happening. They had to be physically dragged away from the staging area in the parking lot, but if you were in the negotiation tent, you could hear their screams of desperation as police escorted them off the scene. “Please save my baby! _Please_!”

Connor knows the negotiator who broke down on the scene. His name is Ian, he’s not very experienced, and he has a soft heart. He couldn’t take the screaming, it flustered him. He accidentally said “no” to a demand.

In retaliation, the hostage taker shot a child.

Moreland kicked Ian off the scene, enraged, called Fowler and demanded ‘that android negotiator’.

“I arrived at the staging area,” Connor continues. “I had compiled a psychological profile of the H.T. in the car. John Torrance was a classically abusive husband with a history of aggravated assault, DUI and domestic violence. But he didn’t fit the profile of a spree killer. The situation just got out of hand and continued to escalate. He didn’t see a way out. I could have given him one, I could have talked him down if I’d been given enough time.”

Fowler nods. “But you weren’t.”

“Correct.”

After thirty minutes of over-the-phone negotiations, Connor was verging on establishing a rapport, but Moreland was fed up — he wanted S.W.A.T. to break the door down. Connor told him that would endanger the children. He told him he could get Torrance to surrender himself.

“I’m sorry,” Moreland snapped, jabbing a finger into his chest. “Am I being ordered around by an android? I am the fucking scene commander here. If I make the call to send them in, they’re going in!”

“I can de-escalate him,” Connor said, in the most even, human-pleasing tone he’s capable of. “Please let me try.”

Moreland strode off, not listening.

Fowler scrolls his mouse down. Most likely he’s cross-referencing what Connor is telling him with the official report. “So…”

“Commander Moreland engaged the subject,” Connor says. “Which violated one of his demands, which I had previously agreed to. He didn’t want anyone to breach the apartment.”

“And that wasn’t the right move.”

“Correct. John Torrance tossed a six-year-old girl out of the window to her death before they could reach him, then shot himself,” Connor says. “S.W.A.T. recovered the four other children unharmed.”

Fowler nods and says nothing for a moment. Rain continues to pound against the windows of the bullpen. If Connor turns his head slightly to the left, he can see a T.V. that’s showing a news report about what happened today.

He doesn’t turn his head.

“So Moreland made a major tactical mistake,” Fowler says, heaving a sigh. “That’s what all the evidence bears out. I can’t see any cause here to investigate your conduct today… it seems like you did everything by the book.”

Connor clears his throat. He has no biological need to do that, of course, but he likes that it’s a polite way to signal to a human that he’s going to disagree with what they just said.

“Captain,” he says, “this is not the first crisis situation where I’ve been undermined.”

“You aren’t alone there. The negotiator and scene commander butt heads, it happens.”

“But the issue seems specifically related to my nature as an android.”

“Connor, it happens. I could say the same thing about being a black police captain. Your authority is gonna get undermined by assholes. It’s something you learn to work around.”

Connor shakes his head. “Sir, I can’t be in that position again. I can’t let hostages die because of me.”

“This is on Moreland. Not you.”

Connor drops his badge onto Fowler’s desk. Fowler’s face drops.

“I don’t accept that,” he says. “I don’t accept a resignation from you. You’re a good cop. You’re one of the most talented negotiators we have. I know everybody hasn’t quite adjusted to that idea yet, okay? God knows I had my own doubts. But people just need time.”

Connor doesn’t want time. He can’t get the image out of his head of that little girl plummeting to her death. He was absolutely helpless, and the horror of it was astonishing. She was halfway down when his programming shut his eyesight off to protect him from the shock of seeing her death, but he heard it, and he heard the unholy screams of the people watching from behind the police barricade.

His stress level reached 95% for the first time since he was activated. His thirium pump self-protectively paused its cycling, slowing him down and making it difficult to process his surroundings. He staggered out of the tent, dropping the tablet that was in his hands.

Hank had been canvassing for a homicide across town that evening, but he came when he heard what happened. He dragged Connor away from the reporters and other cops. He took him home, back to the apartment he shares with Markus, and the three of them sat around the dining room table while Hank drank whiskey and told Connor he’d feel a lot better if he could have a drink.

Markus didn’t say much, just rubbed Connor’s back and held his hand.

Fowler called Connor to come back in at 10:50. He shrugged his DPD raincoat on and went out the door, leaving Markus and Hank to watch him depart with concern on their faces.

“I can’t be responsible for another day like today,” Connor says. “I don’t think this kind of publicity is good for androids. It exaggerates our differences, it’s just going to set our progress back.”

“Connor…”

“I appreciate the chance you took on me,” Connor says. “You’ve been very kind. It was just too soon. Androids need several more years of integration into society, and then I can return to my post, if you’ll have me —“

“Connor,” Fowler barks. “Listen to me.”

Connor stops and listens.

“I’m not gonna let you leave the force completely. Hear me?” (He nods.) “Good. There’s an opening for an investigator in internal affairs. They need someone like you, a behaviorist who can see things big-picture, but pick up on little details, too. So… why don’t I send you over to them? You’d still be in the same building, even. They operate out of the third floor.”

Connor hesitates. Internal affairs — the rat squad. He’d be good at it, but he’s really enjoyed building camaraderie with his fellow cops over the past year. If he goes to IA, they might not see him the same way, anymore. They may not feel like they can speak frankly to him. And trust is the foundation of all human relationships.

But maybe this is how it’s supposed to be, anyway. Maybe he’s just been fooling himself, thinking he could integrate. After today, that seems less like a possibility and more like an obvious reality. He’s meant to be on the outside looking in. Not quite a deviant, not quite a cop.

Fowler has his hand extended across the desk, Connor’s badge resting in his palm. Connor hesitates, then takes it.

“Good,” Fowler says, his relief clear on his face. “I’ll have details for you about the new job on Monday. Go home, see your boyfriend, get some sleep or whatever it is you guys do.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Really wish you’d call me Jeff once in a while.”

“Thank you, Jeff,” Connor says, and Fowler smiles.


	2. ACT I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Right,” Connor says cheerfully. “Valentine’s Day.”  
> 
> 
> Markus chuckles and sets a bouquet of roses on the table in front of him, then straightens up and strokes his hands over Connor’s hair, smoothing it back. “You forgot, huh?”

FEB. 14, 2041

 

Connor gets assigned a new case on a bleak Tuesday morning.

“This seems to have you written all over it,” Commander Tooley told him. She caught him as he was walking into the station — she was out smoking, like usual. “Came down from the Chief this morning, it’s an insurance fraud case. He recommended android input, and…”

Connor took the tablet she handed him. “And I’m the only android you employ.”

Tooley grinned at him and ashed. “Correct.”

Connor was busy with paperwork all day that day. He figured whatever the case was, it couldn’t be that urgent — he usually works on officer-involved shootings, assaults, police bribery. Insurance fraud sounds tame in comparison. So he didn’t even look at the files until he got home that night, sat down with them at the kitchen table, and abruptly realized this case has him written all over it in more ways than one.

Someone at CyberLife is working with someone inside the DPD to perpetrate an insurance fraud scheme. But the scheme is only possible because of a bill Markus lobbied for all through 2039, an olive branch bill that would force CyberLife to pay out compensation to Michigan families who had loved ones killed or assaulted by deviant androids, or whose property had been damaged by same.

The success of the bill, and Markus’s skill for lobbying and organizing, led two political operatives to identify him as a potential candidate to take back Michigan’s 3rd House District from its unpopular and corrupt incumbent. At the very least, they wanted Markus to shake up the race.

Androids had had citizenship for a little less than a year at that point, and he was the first android to run for office. If elected, he’d be the first android elected to one. (Official office, anyway. North had been chosen by the free androids to preside over the municipal concerns of the sovereign territory they received from the U.S. at the beginning of that year — 8,000 square miles in the remote wilds of the Alaskan tundra. But there was nothing by-the-book about it. North prefers to operate outside the confines of the law, like a mob boss.) The race was immediately nationalized, and made into a referendum on the android issue. Him winning would mean everything, him losing meant even more.

Markus stayed calm, ran an impassioned campaign, and won by 2%.

They could hardly believe it. His polling had been tepid all week, so his watch party was tiny — no one thought he’d win, and they didn’t want a big embarrassing spectacle if he lost. Markus didn’t need reporters in his face at a public bar, asking if he thought he’d just set androids back a decade by losing. They’d already had press camping out in the courtyard of their apartment building for days at that point.

Markus wasn’t too concerned, anyway. Despite the media circus, the main goal of his campaign had always been to inoculate voters to the idea of an android candidate. So the two of them just had a few people over to watch the returns at their apartment: the campaign team, Hank, a few of their android friends. But the race ended up being a lot closer than they expected, and KNC called it for him at 11:30.

The room erupted with shouts and the sounds of champagne corks popping, then phones ringing. They didn’t stop ringing for the next three hours. Everyone wanted a piece of Markus, even more than they normally do.

Markus was shell-shocked from that moment on. “I have to _be_ a representative,” he said to Connor that night, when they finally got to bed. “I have to make laws. I have to represent, like, a hundred thousand people. Not even ten percent of those are androids. Why the fuck did they elect me?”

“You’ll be great,” Connor said softly, and kissed him on the cheek.

According to Connor’s case notes, the CyberLife bill had passed in April 2040 with an eight-month deadline for them to begin issuing payouts. There’s not much left of the company, anymore. It was so badly battered by lawsuits that the major shareholders had voted to file for bankruptcy. The company’s buildings and intellectual property were taken over by the government, which has temporarily halted all production of androids, although they’ve kept a CyberLife production center open to create new biocomponents as needed.

The board of directors (sans Kamski and Jason Graff, who are serving five-year and two-year sentences in federal prison, respectively) reorganized the company into the CyberLife Financial Recovery Group post-bankruptcy, with an aim of liquidating any assets the government hadn’t seized to pay off creditors and lawsuits. This new corporation is the entity responsible for working with DPD to pay out on the deviancy claims.

DPD’s part in this is to work with CyberLife to cross reference claims with police reports, collect additional information when necessary, and keep CyberLife honest. But according to discrepancies flagged by the internal affairs department’s accounting AI, someone inside DPD has been manufacturing false police reports. They have to be colluding with someone inside CyberLife Recovery Group, because the fraudulent claims originate from inside the company, and then the fraudulent police reports corroborate them. The AI noticed that several theft reports referred to victims who had, according to DPD records, never been visited or interviewed by the police department, and in two cases, never even owned an android.

The problem is, the two officers who have been supervising investigations into new claims for the last three months are Hank and his new partner, Grant Sabian.

Could Hank be guilty? No, Connor doesn’t think there’s any possible way. He’s always bent the law instead of breaking it, he would have a serious moral issue with colluding with a CyberLife employee, and he has no real motive. Could Grant be? He’s always seemed like a nice kid, fresh out of the academy, and Connor can’t imagine that he could be running a grift of this magnitude without Hank knowing. Could it be another officer, trying to use Hank and Grant as cover? Maybe. Could someone be actively trying to frame Hank? Maybe, but that’s an overly complicated explanation that has no basis in the currently established facts, and Occam’s razor is the guidewire to all of Connor’s police work.

Connor scans the files desperately, trying to ferret out any patterns or leads he’s missing, but the information he has is scant. He has no financial trail to work off of — every transaction has been encrypted, made in untraceable bitcoin. He’s going to have to do the investigative legwork on this one himself. And he can’t breathe a word to Hank.

He’s so absorbed he barely registers the front door opening and closing. He finally tears his attention away when someone comes up behind him and wraps their arms around his neck.

“Hi,” Markus says in his ear, kissing him on the cheek.

“Hi,” Connor says happily. “I thought you were in Lansing all week?”

“Yeah, but I wanted to spend tonight with you…”

Connor has a moment of anxiety. It’s clear from the tone in Markus’s voice that _tonight_ has a specific meaning, which means Connor is forgetting something. An anniversary? He scans his calendar, then reaches up and strokes Markus’s cheek. He sees a flash of him buying flowers…

“Right,” Connor says cheerfully. “Valentine’s Day.”

Markus chuckles and sets a bouquet of roses on the table in front of him, then straightens up and strokes his hands over Connor’s hair, smoothing it back. “You forgot, huh?”

“I didn’t!”

“Connor, it’s okay. You think I don’t know you by now?”

“But I have something for you.”

“Right, that you bought in January.”

Connor buys all of his gifts for the year on January first. He thinks this is the most efficient way to do it, although it’s not necessarily a perfect system. Last July he handed Simon a cactus he’d bought him for his birthday, and Simon had stared at it for a moment before gently saying, “Connor, this is dead, buddy.”

That was an error on his part. His data on that variety of cactus had said they are extremely hearty. Apparently not hearty enough to survive for seven months in a dark locker at a police station. Go figure.

“But I do _have_ it,” Connor protests.

Markus wraps his arms around Connor’s chest and nuzzles into the crook of his neck. “Give it to me later. I just wanted to see you, I missed you.”

“I missed you, too.”

Since the legislature’s been in session, Markus has spent his weeks in a tiny apartment an hour away in Lansing, where the statehouse is. Connor’s visited him there a few times. It’s very utilitarian, although he has two of Carl’s paintings hung up in the living room, a keyboard piano that he likes to noodle around on, and personal photos displayed on the mantelpiece. But there isn’t a whole lot for him to do there except go to work and the occasional college football game.

“What has you so fixated, here?” Markus says, reaching for the tablet.

Connor snatches Markus’s hand and brings it to his mouth, kissing his knuckles. “Top secret,” he says.

He doesn’t want Markus to know he’s potentially going to have to investigate Hank. He hasn’t even come to terms with it himself, and the two of them see Hank socially all the time. Connor needs to play this one close to the vest for a lot of reasons.

“Alright, Jason Bourne,” Markus teases. “You want some Noz? Simon sent me home with a whole box of it, one of my constituents sent it as a gift.”

Noz is an android energy drink that’s supposed to juice up your biocomponents and make you work more efficiently, according to its human creators. It’s just another product in an entire cottage industry of android-marketed merchandise. Connor thinks it’s kind of a scam, but he drinks it so he has something to sip on when the other cops are having their morning coffee. It helps him integrate with them. It smells a little odd, Noz  — the first time Hank saw him drinking some, he said, “That better not be blood,” and when Connor extended the mug for him to sniff, he said, “Are you just drinking fucking _gasoline_ now?”

“I’ll have some if you are,” Connor says. Noz makes sex a little more fun, although they don’t need that lately, now that Markus is away at the capitol all the time. It’s true that absence makes the heart grow fonder. Even when you don’t technically have one.

“Alright,” Markus says, giving him one more kiss before he goes to the cabinet to fetch glasses.

Connor watches him move around their kitchen. He likes how Markus moves; so light on his feet, like a big cat, with coiled power in his steps.

Their kitchen is like the rest of their apartment, full of wood fixtures and warm colors. Other features include a bricked-up fireplace and retro sunken living room. The duplex hasn’t been overhauled since the 1970s — the couple who owned it before them never changed it, then died a week apart. When Markus and Connor came to take a tour, the couple’s daughter offered to remodel it for them, but Connor took one look around and said, “This is perfect.” It was the antithesis to CyberLife’s modern, antiseptic blues and whites. It felt like a home.

Markus liked the warmth too, and the style of it. He has a good eye for cool, Markus — Connor thinks that’s Carl’s influence. Cool isn’t something that can be learned from intentional study, as Connor has learned from years of trying. Whenever he is cool, it’s entirely by accident.

Markus took a little longer to say yes to the duplex than Connor. He went around closely examining the bedrooms, probably making sure there were enough electrical outlets, before he came back into the living room, wrapped an arm around Connor’s waist and said, “I like it. It’s funky.”

Markus brings over two glasses of Noz and sets them on the table with a clink, then settles into the chair next to him. “You sure you can’t tell me what you’re working on? You usually give me the broad strokes, at least.”

“It involves CyberLife. I can’t say any more than that.”

Markus lifts his eyebrows. “Huh.”

Connor takes one of the glasses and has a long sip. “Have you heard anything from North this week?”

Markus ignores this. He and North have fallen out, lately, and he keeps resisting Connor’s attempts to get them talking again. “Why would DPD’s internal affairs department be investigating CyberLife?” he muses, loosening his tie. “You’d think they’d be way past bribing cops by now.”

“I told you I can’t say more.”

Markus flashes him a smile. “You sure? You look like you want to talk.”

“No. I just had a long day.”

“You never have a long day. You could do your job in your sleep.”

Connor smiles back. “The flowers are beautiful, Markus.”

“Uh-huh, nice segue. That reminds me — we do have a vase, right…?”

He gets up and goes back into the kitchen to paw through the lower cabinets. Connor reaches out and picks up the roses, accidentally snagging his finger on a thorn. He drops the bouquet and brings his finger close to his face, watching with detached interest as a bead of thirium blooms on his skin.

Markus comes back, sees this and shakes his head at him. “Careful,” he says, slipping the roses into the vase.

Connor lifts his finger. “Kiss it?”

Markus laughs and takes Connor’s hand in his, kissing the tip of his finger. “Alright. You’re fixed.”

He’s very attractive like this, rumpled after a long day on the House floor, his tie loose and his collar unintentionally popped. Connor grabs him by the forearm and tugs him in close for a kiss.

When they separate, he murmurs, “I think I need more kisses.”

Markus’s smile spreads. “Well, let’s take care of that.”

 

/

 

Connor drains his glass of Noz and undresses while Markus hangs up his suit in the walk-in closet, then kneels beside their bedside table and goes through the drawers looking for the best sex implant they have. It’s like the Ferrari of sex toys; they only bring it out on special occasions. Connor bought it online. It’s called CRAZY SLUT.

Markus comes back out in his boxers, rubbing his hands together. “Oh, it’s that kind of night, huh?” he says, settling onto the bed and watching with interest as Connor inserts the implant into his neck port.

“I did forget Valentine’s Day,” Connor says.

The implant locks into place and engages. The program starts booting up.

“I’m really not mad,” Markus says.

“I know, but I’d like to make it up to you.”

“What’s my present?”

“A watch...” A spasm of arousal shoots through Connor, making him tingle. He moans softly, arching his back, then says, “I thought you could wear it to work.”

Markus is staring at him. “Sorry, I didn’t hear a word you just said. Get over here.”

Connor kneels on the bed, smiling. “It’s a Movado,” he says. “I bought it at Macy’s. It was an —“ The implant zaps him, and he moans again, his cock stiffening between his legs. “After-Christmas sale.”

“Connor,” Markus says huskily, wrapping his arms around him and whisking him down onto the bed, pressing him into the mattress. “Thank you, but shut up about the watch, okay?”

“Would you like me to fuck you, tonight? You seem stressed.”

“No, I wanna fuck you, if you’re into that.”

“Yes,” Connor says, spreading his legs for Markus. “I’m into that. Do you want an implant, too?”

“No, I’m good for now. Maybe for round two or three.”

Markus smooths Connor’s hair back again, then starts stroking his thighs. Connor shivers at the touch of his hands. He’s about twenty times more sensitive than usual. He sees little flashes of Markus’s day as his fingers move over him: answering emails, voicemails, thinking about Connor. He thought about Connor a lot today.

“I did,” Markus agrees, skimming the surface of his mind the same way Connor is doing to him.

He grazes his index finger over Connor’s asshole, and Connor twitches with spasms of electrical impulse, writhing under him on the bed. His pump regulator speeds up, making his pale skin flush violet all over.

“You can’t tease me,” he says with difficulty, his voice hitching. “Not with this one in.”

“I’m sorry, baby,” Markus murmurs, kissing his neck. “I’ll be good.”

Connor kisses him back, clinging to him. He feels like he might break apart if he doesn’t hold onto Markus as tight as he can.

Markus slides into him. Connor’s mind explodes in a riot of data and sensation, millions of impossible colors blooming behind his eyelids, and his body is rocked from head to toe by waves of absurdly heightened pleasure that make him arch up off the bed, begging for it both to stop and continue.

He sees all of Markus’s day simultaneously and feels everything he felt — the smooth surface of his car’s charging port as he disconnected it from its plug that morning, the stinging disappointment he felt when a human senator he was trying to work with blew him off, the feel of his ribs expanding against his stiff suit jacket when he laughed at a joke Simon told him in his office —

“Fuck,” he moans, raking his nails down Markus’s back. “Fuck, fuck fuck.”

“You like this?” Markus breathes in his ear, gripping a handful of the hair at the back of his head. He moves in Connor hard, and Connor sees sparkling streaks in his vision, hears a soft humming in his ears.

Connor lets out a groan, wrapping his legs around Markus and grabbing at his ass so he can get him in as deep as possible. Markus starts moving more powerfully, really pounding him. It makes Connor wish briefly he was on his knees and elbows, but he likes it this way too, with Markus’s face against his so they can kiss and nuzzle.

“You know I like it,” he says softly.

He drops his head back against the pillow and lets his eyes fall shut. He’s still riding the razor’s edge of sensation, just a hair away from being so overstimulated that it becomes unpleasant. Thoughts and feelings swirl in his head — Markus’s, but his own, too.

He doesn’t let Markus see the nature of his newest investigation. It took some trial and error, but they did figure out a while ago how to hide things from each other, how to put thoughts and memories in locked folders the other can’t access no matter where he sticks his tongue, fingers or cock.

It added a new wrinkle to their relationship, the ability to keep secrets. Connor likes it more than Markus does, and he does it more often, too. Markus doesn’t seem to want to hide much of anything. He’s a muller who keeps even his worst thoughts at the forefront of his mind constantly, and doesn’t mind if Connor sifts through them.

Connor comes quickly with a cry, his arms tightening around Markus. His brain clears, going pleasantly blank. Low-priority tasks are washed away.

“Oh,” he moans.

Markus, still fucking him, kisses him deep on the mouth with a little tongue. Connor, as always when he tastes the synthetic fluid that makes up Markus’s semen and saliva, sees MODEL RK200, SERIAL NUMBER #684 842 971 hovering in his vision.

“God, I love how you look when you come,” Markus says, breathing heavily.

He always sounds so sincere and deadly serious about everything he says, it’s hard not to preen in the glow of his affection. Connor bites down on Markus’s bottom lip and clenches hard around his cock to repay the compliment.

 

/

 

When they’re done, they lie there with the eleven o’clock news on in the background, petting each other while they half-listen.

Connor nuzzles into Markus’s neck again, pressing little kisses to his throat. Markus has been trying out a short beard, lately, and he likes the new, scrapey feel of it. Markus keeps the flat of his hand in the center of Connor’s back, running his fingers back and forth.

“I have a question for you,” Connor says.

“Shoot.”

“Do your coworkers ever act tense about us both being men?”

It doesn’t matter to them at all, being androids, but he’s noticed that humans see these things through a distinctly human lens, and they’re really big on this whole gender thing. Connor doesn’t even think of himself as a man, truthfully. He’s an android first and foremost. If humans hadn’t programmed certain sexual responses into him, he and Markus could probably connect their neck ports with a double-ended cord and have exactly as much fun as they just had.

“What, like homophobic?” Markus says. “Not often, but yeah. I get shit across the board, really.”

Connor runs his thumb over Markus’s collarbone.

“Why, are you having a problem at work?”

“Police work can be a tough environment.”

“Oh, that’s nice and vague,” Markus says. He sounds amused.

“It’s not a specific problem, I just sometimes find myself at odds with the workplace culture.”

“Right. You’ve said before.”

There are a few gay officers, but it’s a retrograde and hypermasculine environment overall. Hank still has pull with the rest of the force, and he’s vouched for Connor — plus, Connor’s likeable enough on his own, too. But sometimes he feels triply outside of things: an android, an internal affairs investigator, in what is for all intents and purposes a committed same-sex relationship.

“I do get jokes, or comments about you,” he says. “I was just curious if it’s been the same for you, since you’ve been working at the capitol.”

Markus smooths Connor’s hair back off his forehead. “You never mentioned that before.”

“I’ve noticed it more lately. It’s funny, I think it’s gotten worse as they’ve gotten used to me. Once they accepted me, they felt free to bond with me by teasing me.”

“Yeah, I get it. The in-group thing.”

“Like how Hank couldn’t make fun of my taste in music until I actually developed one.”

“Nothing wrong with top forty,” Markus says, smiling. “So, you wouldn’t happen to be wondering about this because you keep thinking about me being your date to the police department gala?”

“Oh, you saw that?” Connor flirts. “I meant to ask. It’s on Friday night, and I wasn’t sure if you’d be tied up at work.”

Markus kisses him. “Not planning to be. No, I want to go... seeing Hank in a tux is worth hanging out with cops for three hours.”

This is part of why Connor hesitated to ask him; he knows Markus is uncomfortable around cops, and for good reason. “I doubt Hank’s coming. I asked him if he was going, and he pretended he didn’t hear me.”

“That’s fine… we can slow dance, I'll whisper in your ear, get everyone riled up about gay robots.” Markus presses a kiss to his top lip. “I want to see you in _your_ tux.”

Connor plays with Markus’s earlobe. “You know what humans call tuxedos? Monkey suits. I always thought that was cute.”

“You’re cute.”

“I’m sensing a pattern here, Markus.”

“Are you?” Markus murmurs, kissing him again.


	3. ACT II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I didn’t want to stop being a negotiator, or a beat cop,” Connor says. “I just couldn’t accept more blood on my hands.”  
> 
> 
> “The blood was never on your hands, kid,” Hank says, patting him on the back again. He drains his whiskey, then sets the glass down and heads back toward their table.

The gala is held at Wadsworth Manor, an old mansion that’s nestled between skyscrapers in the middle of the city. It was built in 1962, foreclosed on in 2035 and purchased by the Detroit city council, and now houses an archives building on the second floor while the first floor serves as an a assembly hall for municipal functions.

Markus finds this out not because he looked it up, but because Connor tells all of it to him and Hank as their taxi sits in traffic around the corner.

“Jesus, Connor,” Hank says. “Is there gonna be a test later?”

“The more I use my location research software, the more detailed a map I develop of Detroit, and it helps me process things to talk out loud.”

“I like hearing about it,” Markus says.

“Thank you for lying,” Connor says, sounding amused.

“I’m not lying.”

Connor turns in his seat and lifts an eyebrow at Markus.

“I’m not," Markus says in his best sincere politician voice.

Hank chuckles. “Just a heads-up, I’m at this thing for an hour and a half, tops, so if you two want to give my seat to somebody else after I leave, go ahead.”

“No, hey, come on,” Markus protests. “You two are the only cops I like.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t like that many more than you do. Your boyfriend’s the one who’s Mr. Congeniality, always remembering people’s birthdays and shit.”

“I’m surprised you even agreed to come, Hank,” Connor says. “It’s a very formal event.”

Hank’s not in a tux like they are, but he did actually allow Markus to lend him a suit jacket, which is a first.

“Yeah, a couple of senators are even gonna be there,” Markus says. “It was a big topic in the capitol cafeteria today.”

Their taxi inches forward. All three lanes of the street in front of the manor are clogged up by people jumping out of idling taxis and Ubers, or circling around the block looking for a parking spot. This fundraiser is the first big society event of February.

“Don’t tell me _that_ ,” Hank says, looking unhappy. “I’m gonna leave even faster, now. Nah, I figured I’d make an appearance so Grant has somebody to talk to… y’know, he’s young, not married, new to the force. Plus, if people think I’m around somewhere, they won’t fuck with Connor.”

“Very sentimental reasoning all around,” Connor says, winking at him. Hank gives him the finger. “Am I expecting to be fucked with? I can't think of anyone who has a problem with me right now.”

“You know how squirrelly these guys get about internal affairs once they have a few drinks in them,” Hank says. “And there’s always Reed.”

“I’ll kick his ass myself,” Markus says.

“You can’t,” Connor says sternly. “You’re a politician, you can't kick anyone’s ass. Is Reed still holding a grudge?”

Their taxi finally sees an opening in the right lane. It pulls up to the curb, and the three of them get out. Chilly blue night has already descended over the city, the dark sky pulled tight against the tops of the buildings.

“What do you think, Connor?” Hank says, starting up the sidewalk to the manor. “You got the guy busted down from sergeant like a month after he got promoted.”

“He assaulted a suspect,” Connor says. “I was doing my job.”

Hank grins. “What about the time you broke his arm in the evidence room?”

“He attacked me unprovoked! Come on, Hank.”

“Hey, I don’t think that shithead should even be on the force. I’m just saying, yeah, he still really doesn’t like you, so I’m gonna keep an eye on him.”

Connor nods, but his brow knits like he’s thinking about something.

Markus slings an arm around Connor’s shoulders, and the two of them fall into step behind Hank. He reaches his knuckles up to brush Connor’s jaw, but he gets nothing from him. He must be walling off his thoughts.

Markus does his best not to be concerned by this. “You clean up nice, officer,” he whispers.

“So do you, congressman,” Connor says, his dark eyes twinkling.

“Know what I’m thinking? Let’s get seen, let’s dance a little, then let’s ditch this thing when Hank does, and go make out in the park.”

Connor reaches down and squeezes Markus’s ass. “I’m okay with that. You’re being very flirty, tonight.”

“Honestly? I miss you like crazy lately. Lansing sucks.”

“I miss you too,” Connor says. “I’ve actually been thinking about getting a dog.”

He laughs. “You’re gonna replace me with a dog?”

“Just so I have something to come home to.”

“Yeah, you should get a dog if you want one. I wouldn’t mind having a dog around.”

“I actually already went to the shelter and looked at some,” Connor admits. “There’s a basset hound there right now. He’s seven. His name is Snickers.”

Markus presses a kiss to his cheek as they walk along, hanging off of each other, their steps sort of clumsy. “Snickers, huh?”

“He has a wheat allergy.”

“Well,” Markus murmurs, “then you better not feed him any wheat.”

Connor smiles. “I won’t.”

 

/

 

Once inside, it’s a long gauntlet of shaking hands and saying hello to people before they can get to the seats at the table they RSVP’d for. A slow meander through the grand old foyer, up the wide staircase, stopping every few feet as they go.

Mostly it’s Markus stopping. A lot of his donors are here, plus the mayor and some city aldermen, plenty of his fellow legislators, and some socialites he’d prefer not to talk to but has to because they’re on the boards of big charities.

Connor has a few cops to say hello to, but other than that his only job is to stand next to Markus, say “Nice to meet you,” and smile. They’re almost at the table when Markus is accosted by Senator Lloyd, who’s sponsoring a huge crime bill and wants to ask him how he’s planning to vote.

“Not working tonight, sorry, Fred,” Markus says, smiling. “See you on Monday.”

“Oh, you tricky plastic bastard,” Fred says, slapping him on the back. “Yeah, alright, I’ll send somebody by your office.”

“You got polling for me?”

“Uh-huh, I’ll have my aide give you all our data we have so far.”

A lot of the legislators have android aides for ease of transferring files, quickly referencing statistics and studies, editing bills, contacting constituents, et cetera. Androids are just so much better at collating information, predicting trends, and taking the temperature of voters. But even post-Markus’s win, it hasn’t seemed to occur to his fellow representatives that their assistants could probably do the job of lawmaking better than they can.

Some of the aides are refurbished PL600s, which is frustrating for Simon, who Markus brought on to be his chief of staff. A couple times a day a random senator will see him in the hallway and say, “Hey, remind me to email so-and-so?” and Simon will have to politely reply, “Sir, my name is Simon, I don’t work for you.” Markus always jokes that this would be a great way to collect enemy oppo if Simon were just a little more unethical.

Fred makes his way through the crowd and back over to his own table. Hank, looking relieved, grabs several cocktails off of the tray of a passing waiter and collapses into his seat.

“This is nuts,” he says. “When I went to this thing five, ten years ago, it was just cops and firefighters. When did it turn into the Academy Awards?”

Markus sits, too. Connor remains standing, scanning the crowd. The rest of their table is still AWOL — Grant isn’t here, and neither is the other couple they’re sitting with, Tina Chen and her girlfriend Audrey.

“If I had to guess,” he says, “it’s because Detroit is still afraid of an android takeover, and Detroit cops are our first line of defense. So everyone’s lining up to dump money in your laps.”

“I think Markus is right,” Connor says.

Hank glances up at him. “Sit down, you’re making me nervous. I hate it when you scan like that.”

“Sorry.” Connor adopts a more leisurely posture. “Better?”

“Better, but sit down anyway. Who are you looking for? I think John Connor went to the bathroom.”

Connor finally sits. “Your Terminator jokes stopped being funny a couple years ago.”

“At a certain point, Connor, it’s more about busting your balls.”

“Consider my balls very well-busted by now.”

Hank laughs and takes a sip of his cocktail.

Markus leans in and whispers, “Who _are_ you looking for?”

Connor shakes his head. “I’m just developing my database of DPD officers. I don’t usually see this many in one place, except for at funerals.”

“Something to do with your case?”

Connor shoots him a sharp look. “I can’t talk about my case.”

Something about the way he says this seems particularly pointed. “What, in front of _Hank_?”

“In front of anyone.”

“He always does this, Markus,” Hank says, draining the first cocktail and moving on to the second. “I don’t take it personally. That’s what internal affairs is for, Connor just takes himself more seriously than most.”

“It isn’t a bad thing,” Connor says. “I have the highest percentage of case closures in my department for a reason.”

“Didn’t say it was,” Hank says. “Dirty cops should get what they deserve. But you understand what I was saying earlier, about how even the cops who like you get edgy around you. They get the wrong idea. They think you’re like a human would be, ambitious, itching to bust them on anything. They don’t get that you just enjoy the process, ‘cos they wouldn’t.”

Connor takes his coin out from where he’d hidden in his cummerbund, and starts playing with it. “Maybe there’s more guilty consciences at DPD than you think.”

Hank turns his head sharply to look at Connor. “Don’t say shit like that,” he says. “That’s not you. You’re always going on about reasonable doubt, preponderance of the evidence.”

“A guilty conscience is evidence.”

“A guilty conscience is circumstantial. That’s basic criminal psychology. People feel guilty about lots of shit.”

The coin flashes between Connor’s hands, barely visible for its speed, like a fish underwater.

Grant sidles through the crowd and drops into the seat on Hank’s left. He’s only twenty-four, and looks even younger, with his boyish face, redheaded and freckled complexion, and soft voice. “Hey,” he says. “I almost couldn’t find you guys. This is crazy. I saw Chief Santos, he said we’d clear like three hundred grand tonight. We can buy a lot of vests with that, shit.”

“Yeah, there you go, Connor,” Hank says. “You’re always going on about vests. We need vests, K9s need vests… crying about how fragile us humans are…”

“I don’t _cry._ ”

“You should have seen him when I took one in the shoulder last year,” Hank says to Grant. “Stayed at my hospital bed the entire time. I didn’t even need surgery, it was like a paper cut.”

“You don’t clot very well,” Connor murmurs.

“Put that on my tombstone,” Hank says, his eyes twinkling. “‘He didn’t clot very well.’”

Connor shakes his head, rolling his eyes. “Hi, Grant,” he says. “How’s your evening going?”

“Not bad,” Grant says casually, but Markus notices him tense up slightly. He seems to find Connor intimidating. “Lot of paperwork today.”

“How’s the CyberLife inquiry coming along?” Connor says.

His tone is neutral — almost too neutral. Hank looks at him out of the corner of his eye, then says, “It’s going alright. Mostly boring stuff, this week. Little old lady says her android made off with her toaster when it ran away to Alaska, stuff like that.”

“Oh yeah, so, Markus,” Grant says. “Have you heard anything from Alaska lately? How are they doing up there?”

A waiter comes by and offers Markus some Noz. He takes it with a thank you, then says, “Uh, haven’t heard much, lately, but no news is good news, I guess.”

Connor glances at him, but says nothing. He knows North has been angry at Markus ever since he took office, and that Markus is, in turn, refusing to speak to her. Their last conversation was an awful blowup. She called him a lapdog, he called her a rageaholic. As far as he knows, she’s still living an isolated existence up there, tending to day-to-day squabbles and working on building infrastructure.

Josh isn’t with her. He was the first of the four to break off — he’s been working as an adjunct professor, and currently teaches a theory of android ethics class at Cornell. Markus kept in touch with him. He gets an email from Josh about once a week, usually just things like _I thought you might like to read this study,_ or _They played a clip of you on the BBC this morning. You’re doing good work, man, keep it up._

Simon was the only one who stayed with Markus and pledged to follow him into whatever he chose to do. Like Connor, he’s loyal to people, not ideology. Markus has always liked that about both of them.

 

/

 

Connor wanders away from the table after they’ve been there about half an hour. People are still coming up to Markus, and he’s finding small talk harder than normal. Everyone seems to expect Connor to be someone other than who he is, anyway. There’s a mold for a politician’s partner that he doesn’t fit in in any way. Even female he wouldn’t fit it. He’s nice and charming, and that’s all he can do for them.

He makes his way through the sea of people in formalwear and sidles up to the bar, because he likes the idea of sidling up to a bar. The bartender eyes him, clearly taking notice of his LED.

Connor leans an elbow against the dark red wood. “Just Noz on ice, please.”

“Alright.”

Connor’s waiting for that when Hank comes up beside him, patting him on the back. Connor gives his arm a squeeze in kind. “Hey.”

“Hey, kid.”

The bartender slides Connor’s glass over to him.

“Whiskey neat,” Hank tells him.

“Got it.”

Connor watches the bartender as he squats down to fetch a bottle of Jack. “I wish you’d at least stop drinking liquor,” he says.

“Leave it, Connor. Not tonight.”

“Beer alone wouldn’t do as much damage to your heart and liver.”

“I can drink less whiskey and get the same amount of drunk, so that’s actually not true.”

“You’re a binge drinker. You drink until the alcohol is gone. If you drank beer instead, it wouldn’t be as hard on you.”

Hank accepts the whiskey from the bartender and says to him, “Is it just me, or is he full of shit?”

The bartender laughs. “It’s nice to have somebody who worries about you,” he says, then heads down to the other end to take care of a couple who’s just walked up.

“I get it, Connor,” Hank says. “You don’t want me to die. I appreciate it. I’m not actively inviting it anymore, I promise.”

“I want you to try a little harder than that.” Connor hesitates. “You seem to be in a better mood, lately.”

Hank takes a sip of his drink. “Do I?”

From the far end of the room, someone steps up onto the stage and taps the microphone. It’s Chief Santos, smiling and bending down to talk into the mic, which is set up for someone significantly shorter.

“Okay,” he says, “alright, everybody… we’re gonna get started in a couple minutes here, thanking our biggest donors and honoring some officers who really stood out last year. I’m gonna give the caterers a couple more minutes, ‘cos I think they’re still handing out the salads. But this is your five minute warning. Hope you’re enjoying your evening, everyone, thanks for coming out to support the department.”

Applause breaks out across the hall. Connor sets his glass down to clap, and Hank smiles at this.

“Sometimes I wish you’d stuck with being a negotiator,” he says.

Connor winds down his clapping. “What do you mean?”

“Just, you were good at it. And you’d started growing on people. Now that you’re IA, it’s a little different.”

“I like my coworkers up there,” Connor says. “We have a good relationship.”

“Yeah, it’s just not the same as being a beat cop, though. Being on scenes with the same people day to day. And you would have made a great detective, but you never got the chance.”

“I’m an investigator now, Hank.”

“I mean investigating real criminals, not just other cops.”

Connor studies him. Hank has expressed this sentiment before, so it’s not necessarily suspicious. He’s just on high alert right now.

Tooley told him the insurance skimmer could be anyone in the department — all they have so far is a handful of bullshit reports. But they’re all cribbed off of real reports of android crimes filed by cops throughout the district, so none of them point to a particular suspect. Someone isn’t filing brand-new false reports under their own name, they’re cherry picking existing reports and fudging the details, names of the victims, android models, et cetera, then filing them anew. It’s very clever. The suspect must be feeding existing reports to their contact at CyberLife, who probably uses a predictive text bot to invent a new report, which the dirty cop then files to back up the insurance claim. Then the CyberLife contact collects the payout for themselves.

Grant and Hank have had the most access and opportunity, especially since they’ve been in continual contact with CyberLife, but that fact could just be providing cover for the real skimmer.

And it can’t be Hank. It just doesn’t make any sense. But it’s an objective fact that he’s giving Connor a harder time than usual, right now. Of course, it’s possible he’s just doing that because he can tell how stressed and isolated Connor feels, and he’s worried about him. His personal relationship with Hank makes a truly objective assessment almost impossible.

“Cops can be criminals,” Connor says.

“I know,” Hank says, his voice soft. “Wasn’t saying otherwise. You get what I meant.”

“I didn’t want to stop being a negotiator, or a beat cop. I just couldn’t accept more blood on my hands.”

“The blood was never on your hands, kid,” Hank says, patting him on the back again. He drains his whiskey, then sets the glass down and heads back toward their table.

 

/

 

Hank stays later than he said. The four of them walk out of there three hours after they arrived — more accurately, Markus and Connor walk, and Hank and Grant stagger.

“Glad we don’t have work tomorrow,” Grant slurs, swaying on his feet next to Hank as the latter throws up in some rose bushes in the manor’s front garden.

Markus bends over Hank and ties his hair back for him with a rubber band he had in his pocket, then returns to Connor, who’s standing a ways back. His face is soft in the glow of the moon and the fairy lights strung around the garden, but Markus can tell he’s troubled. His LED is yellow, even.

“What’s up?” he says.

Connor shakes his head. “Just thinking.”

“You’ve been thinking all night. Thinking since Tuesday, actually.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, just let me in on it.”

Connor meets his eyes. “I can’t,” he says, his soft voice heavy with regret.

Markus lowers his own voice more. “Are you investigating the inquiry these two are working on? Is there something screwy going on there, is that why you’re being cagey with them?”

“Markus…”

“Alright, alright.” He pauses. “Blink for yes.”

Connor laughs. “I’m not going to give you a direct answer.”

“I get it. I’ll stop prying. I was just wondering.”

“I know.”

Markus runs a finger over his LED, which is blue again. “Why don’t you take this out? You’re one of the only holdouts.”

“Simon still has his,” Connor points out.

“Nope. You haven’t seen him in a minute, have you? He took it out when we got to Lansing.”

“I like having it,” Connor admits. “I like people knowing what I am. I don’t feel like I’m fooling anyone, especially being a prototype. I mean, you’re one too, but everyone knows who you are by now. People don’t necessarily know my face.”

“And you don’t want to get mistaken for human.”

“I don’t want anyone to feel tricked by me. I am what I am.”

“Yeah. I get you.”

Connor reaches down and takes his wrist. “You’re wearing the watch,” he says, smiling.

“I am.”

“It looks good on you.”

“My man has good taste.”

“Most things look good on you.”

They hear footsteps on the gravel path next to them, and someone stops, then comes around the tall rose bushes to where the four of them have cloistered themselves away. Connor and Markus turn.

It’s Gavin Reed.

“Well well,” he says, smiling without engaging his eyes. “Thought I heard some familiar voices.”

Connor stares a hole in him and says nothing.

“What do you want?” Markus says.

“Oh, just checking on you,” Gavin says, shooting a look at Hank and Grant behind them. “You babysitting your favorite drunk and his toddler partner? The two android lovers? Good, that's more your speed than pretending to be an investigator.”

“You should be on your way, Detective,” Connor says.

Gavin’s eyes glimmer. “ _Detective_ , is that a dig?”

“I believe it’s your rank.”

“Thanks to you.”

“Thanks to your own unprofessional behavior.”

“You want to talk about unprofessional behavior?” Gavin says, indicating Hank with his chin. “How come you’ve been on the rat squad for a fucking year and you haven’t written Anderson a single citation?”

Markus turns and sees Hank staggering to his feet.

“You have a problem with me, Reed, you take it up with me,” Hank says, sounding remarkably sober for someone in his condition. “Not him.”

“No, it’s still your vibrator here I have the problem with,” Gavin says, and shoves Connor.

Hank lunges forward as if to get between them, but Connor reacts instantaneously, like he’d been waiting for an excuse. He grabs Gavin by the arm and flips him around, shoving him forward and pinning him against the trunk of a tree.

“I think you had a few too many drinks yourself, _Detective_ ,” he says, his voice as even as ever. “Your reflexes aren’t what they used to be.”

Gavin scoffs, writhing in his grip. “I just came over here to tell you to watch out,” he snarls.  “You’ve been fucking with things outside your league for a long time now, and it’s gonna catch up with you one of these days.”

Connor freezes, his LED going yellow again. “What does that mean? Do you know something?”

Gavin just laughs.

“Reed, if you’re aware of corruption inside the department and are choosing to taunt an internal affairs officer instead of making a report, I am warning you, you _will_ lose your job.”

“Fuck off...”

Connor yanks Gavin away from the tree and marches him down to the gap in the bushes he’d appeared from, then shoves him through back onto the dirt path. If the situation weren’t so tense, this would be funny — it looks like something out of _The Three Stooges._

Connor turns, straightens his bow tie, brushes his hands off on his tuxedo jacket and walks back over. They all look at him expectantly.

“What was that about, man?” Grant says. “What are you investigating?”

Connor shakes his head. “I can’t discuss that,” he says, sounding testy at having to repeat this yet again.

“Connor,” Hank says. “You alright?”

“I’m fine. We should get going. I called a taxi.”

 

/

 

They make sure that Hank gets home and safely into bed (on his side, Connor reminds Markus, so he doesn’t aspirate vomit, to which Markus replies, “Connor, I was a nurse for _years_ ”) before they take a taxi back to their own apartment.

Markus undresses as soon as they step back in their own bedroom. Connor doesn’t, he stands there with his tux still on and his LED yellow again. He must be consulting his files. Markus finally interrupts him by coming up to him and undoing his bow tie with a quick yank.

“Hey,” he says to Connor, giving him a kiss. “Come back to Earth.”

“Sorry,” Connor says, kissing him back. “I’m sorry.”

“No worries. Just come to bed with me.” He unhooks Connor’s cummerbund, tossing it onto the bed next to them.

He likes Connor like this, a little undone, his hair mussed. He’s so clean-cut, normally.

Connor starts undoing the buttons on his dress shirt. Without looking up from his hands, he says, “I’m investigating the CyberLife inquiry.”

Markus processes this. “Shit, okay... so you _are_ investigating Hank?”

“Please. I can’t tell you anything else. I shouldn’t have even said that.”

“Connor, come on. I don’t work with you. This is our bedroom, okay? If something’s weighing on you, this is where you can talk about it.”

Connor shakes his head. “I like to keep things to myself until I understand them.”

Markus sighs.

Connor looks up at him. “Just give me some time, okay? Let me work the investigation. As soon as I get a good idea of what I’m dealing with, I’ll feel better.”

“Alright. I’ll drop it.”

“I’ll try to stop acting so weird.”

“The promises you make me, Connor, I swear…” He pinches him on the ass, and Connor laughs. They move over to the bed together and fall into it, arms wrapped around each, giggling.

“Markus,” Connor murmurs to him, stroking his hands up over the back of his neck.

Markus kisses his neck. “Yeah?”

“I hate being confused.”

“I know, sweetheart.”

 

/

 

 

On Monday, Tooley calls Connor into her office.

“Commander?” he says, pausing in her doorway. Her office is cluttered with knick-knacks and boxes containing hard copies of files that she doesn’t trust the cloud to keep safe.

“Sit,” she says, glancing up from her computer. Connor obliges. “I have an assignment for you. It’s for the CyberLife skimming case... I want that to be your main priority, right now.”

Great.

“Yes ma’am,” Connor says.

Tooley peers at him over her glasses. “I know you’re aware of this, but I need complete discretion on this.”

“Of course.”

“I know you’re close with Hank Anderson.”

“I’ll do my best not to let that affect my investigation,” Connor says. “If I feel like my judgment’s clouded, I’ll let you know, and you can replace me.”

“Good. Honestly, your access to him is one of the reasons I wanted you for this. I just don’t want to blur any lines.”

“He doesn’t fit the profile, does he?”

Tooley shrugs. “It’s hard to say. I mean, he’s been an honest cop for decades, so in that respect, no. But he’s also a loose cannon with behaviorial issues, and a drinker who gambles.”

“No, Hank’s gambling is very minor,” Connor says. “I’d compare it to someone who plays the lottery. I don’t think he’s in debt… he owns his house outright. He lives within his means. He doesn’t have any dependents to support. I can’t see any reason for him to be stealing money.”

Tooley eases her glasses off her face and sets them on her desk, her mouth grim. “Connor,” she says. “I want you to work on confirming everything you just said. Don’t present it as fact. Make absolutely sure it is.”

Connor stiffens. “So you’re treating him as a suspect?”

“Him and Officer Sabian, you know that already. They have the most access. I’m not looking at Sabian as much, because he’s only been out of the academy a few months. I’d be surprised if he were capable of an operation this sophisticated, and of hiding it from his partner.”

“It could be another officer.”

“It could. Do you have someone in particular in mind?”

“Gavin Reed made a comment to me outside the gala,” Connor says. “Not sure how much to read into it. He was drunk, and he’s always had a problem with me.”

Tooley squints at him. “I’ll keep that in mind. Anyway, your assignment…” She hits a few buttons on her keyboard, and he sees he’s received an e-mail. “I want you to re-investigate these three cases. We know for a fact that there are have been at least four entirely fabricated reports, but I want to check if we might have more subtle skimming, as well. Like, someone adding an item to an otherwise truthful report. These are three theft cases where big-ticket items were reported missing. Two cars, and a prosthetic leg worth about ten grand. Each theft was reportedly preceded by an assault.”

Connor scans through the reports attached to her email. One of the cases was investigated by just Hank, one by Hank and Grant, and another was investigated by Detective Jennifer Huston, working solo.

“So you’re wondering if any of these were actually just simple assaults,” Connor says. “If the theft part of the report was fabricated… because if it was, that would point directly to our suspect.”

“Or suspects,” Tooley says. “But yes.”

“Alright. I’ll follow up on these.”

Tooley nods. “Thanks. Oh, one more thing — you get a last name yet?”

“Sorry?”

“Have you picked a last name for yourself?”

Connor shrugs. “RK800.”

“That’s fine for paperwork, but there’s a payroll issue. The IRS doesn’t want you guys using model numbers anymore, they say it’s too confusing.”

“But I’m a prototype,” Connor says. “No one else would be filing under RK800.”

“I don’t know what to tell you.”

“Millions of human beings have the same last names as each other.”

She shrugs. “It’s just a placeholder, Connor. It doesn’t mean anything or show up anywhere important. Pick anything, as long as you use it consistently.”

He hesitates, then says, “They can use Manfred.”

“Manfred? Alright.” Tooley does some clicking around, then types this into something. “That’s the one your boyfriend uses, right?”

“Yeah.”

“How’s he doing?”

“Good. He’s been busy.”

“I bet. He’ll be president one day, I wouldn’t be at all surprised.”

The thought of this makes nasty shock zing through Connor, like he’s grabbed an electrical fence with both hands.

“Alright, get out of here.” She flaps her hand at him. “Get to work.”

 

/

 

While he’s driving through the suburbs of Warren on his way to investigate the stolen prosthetic leg, Connor says to Markus, _Do you know the IRS isn’t letting us use our model numbers as last names for tax purposes anymore?_

 _Yep,_ Markus says back. _That’s new as of January._

_So they want us all to take human last names?_

_Exactly._

_That’s bullshit._

_Yeah. I sent an email to the president, but she doesn’t want to be seen interfering with the IRS._

Connor doesn’t want to discuss it further, so he just says, _How’s your day going?_

_Good, good. Busy. It’s lunchtime right now, Simon and I are playing basketball down the street with a couple guys._

_Are you winning?_

_Kicking their sorry human asses._

_Ha. Tell him I said hi._

_Will do. So how’s your day been?_

Connor makes a right, gliding down a narrow residential street. Snow is piled high in the yards and on the trees. He’s on the right block, now.

He decided to first follow up on the case that Hank had investigated alone. An assault, and apparently stolen prosthetic leg. He knows it can’t be Hank, but he’s experiencing very human doubts and anxiety, so he wants to just get this one out of the way.

Connor drums his fingers on the dashboard.

 _Gotta go,_ he says. _Working on a case._

 _Alright_ , Markus says.

/

 

The vic is an elderly man who answers the door after two rings of the doorbell. He looks surprised to see Connor, but welcomes him in.

“I don’t have any new information for you,” he calls to Connor, who had introduced himself and then gone into his little galley kitchen to fix him a cup of coffee. “I haven’t seen my android in three years now…”

“That’s alright,” Connor calls back. “I just want to confirm a few details.”

He brings a cup of coffee back to the living room — black with sugar, as requested.

“Oh, thank you…” The man takes it, then eyes the gun in Connor’s hip holster. “You’re an android too, aren’t you?”

“I’m the android investigator with Detroit PD, yes,” Connor says, settling into an easy chair across from him. “Are you Thomas Cannon?”

“I am,” Thomas says.

“Do you have a prosthetic leg, Thomas?”

He looks surprised at the question, but lifts the hem of his pants to show Connor that his left calf is smooth titanium.

Connor makes a note of this. “And did you report a similar prosthetic leg stolen in October of 2038?”

“I did.”

“Your android took it?”

“Yes,” Thomas says, his face growing pensive. “Ricky. I called him Ricky.” He takes a sip of his coffee.

“What model was he?”

“Model number. Huh. I couldn’t say for sure, I’m sorry.”

“My notes say he was an AP700. Does that sound right to you?”

“Yes. Yes, it does.”

Connor nods. “Where did Ricky take your leg?”

“Ran. What happened was, a boy who lives down the street hurt him. I don’t think he meant to, he was playing around. Started hitting Ricky with a stick he found. Ricky got upset, he shoved him...” Thomas trails off.

“Did he injure the boy?” Connor says.

“No, he just scared him. But he was afraid. He knew they deactivate deviants, he didn’t want that. He came home and pushed me down.” Thomas adjusts his eyeglasses. “Took my leg.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“It’s alright, it’s been a long time. He said he was sorry. He said he was going to sell it and start a new life. I told him he could stay, but he didn’t listen.”

Connor nods.

Thomas eyes him. “Why are you asking me these questions now, so long after? Did you find him?”

“No, we didn’t.” Connor doesn’t tell him there’s a very good chance Ricky numbers among the anonymous dead androids who were killed at Jericho or during the protests. “So, you filed a claim with CyberLife this winter, asking for a reimbursement?”

“Yeah. I got my leg through Medicare, but it wasn’t cheap. And there weren’t many legal options, back then, for when your property ran off with your other property.” He pauses. “Feel funny calling him property in front of you. I didn’t know any better at the time.”

“It’s okay,” Connor assures him. “I’m just interested in the facts. So, when you made the claim to CyberLife, an officer with the DPD came out to talk to you, correct?”

He nods. “I don’t remember his name.”

“You remember what he looked like?”

“Yeah. Taller and bigger than you. Gray hair.”

“Does the name Hank Anderson sound familiar?”

“Yeah, it does. Hank. That was him.”

“And did you tell him everything you just told me?”

“Yeah.”

“How much did you tell him your prosthetic leg cost?”

“Well, insurance covered the first one, but like I told him, I had to cover the replacement out of pocket. Ten grand. I’m on a fixed income, I had to borrow against my house.”

Ten grand is what Hank had quoted in the report. Connor takes a piece of paper out of his pocket and hands it to Thomas.

“Is this the original police report you filed, when the theft occurred?” he says. “Do all of the details match up?”

Thomas looks over it for a long time. His face changes, and sorrow softens his eyes.

“Yes,” he says. “That’s exactly how I filed it.”

He hands it back to Connor, who stands up.

“Thank you for your help,” he says. “I won’t take up any more of your time.”

Thomas hesitates, then says, “I wasn’t ever cruel to him. It just helped, having somebody around… I don’t get around too well.”

“Try not to take it personally,” Connor says. “It doesn’t sound like he left because of you. Deviants do desperate things, just like humans do.”

He gives Thomas a nod and heads back out, pulling the front door snugly shut behind him.

 

/

 

The other two leads don’t turn up anything, either. Both victims say their androids assaulted them, then took their cars, and all of the info matches up. Make, model, plate number.

Connor returns to the station feeling defeated. Tooley’s leads didn’t incriminate Hank, but they didn’t exonerate him.

He doesn’t head back upstairs to internal affairs right away. He lingers on the first floor, heading for the break room and leaning against the counter, playing with his coin. He’s filing a pretty useless report for Tooley: FINDINGS: NONE. LEADS DEVELOPED: NONE. SUSPECTS ELIMINATED: NONE.

Connor hears the briefing room door open, and about a dozen cops start filing out and into the bullpen, chatting with each other. Three of them head into the break room — Tina, Gavin and Paul, a gang squad detective.

“Hey Connor,” Tina says, and Paul gives him a friendly wave. “You visiting us? Get bored of rat squad?”

“Never boring on the third floor,” Connor says, smiling.

Gavin snorts. He comes over to get a cup of coffee, but doesn’t dare elbow into Connor’s space.

“Hey, a bunch of us are getting drinks tonight at Bora,” Tina says. “I know you don’t drink or whatever, but come play darts.”

“Sure, I’ll come by.”

“You’re real funny,” Gavin snaps at Tina.

Paul turns to Tina, looking amused. She lifts her eyebrows at Gavin. “Sorry, something wrong?”

Gavin just shakes his head and doesn’t respond. Paul and Tina take a seat at one of the tables; Tina fishes a wrapped-up sub out of the pocket of her puffy jacket and sets it down, unwrapping the crinkly paper.

“I think Reed has a problem with darts,” Paul says.

Tina laughs through a mouthful of tuna sandwich. Connor says nothing. The humor here isn’t at his expense, so it’s worth it just to let this play out, and let Gavin rile himself up.

Gavin’s face is red, but he just keeps stirring sugar into his coffee. “Yeah,” he says. “That’s it.” He addresses Connor, then: “What are you even doing in here? This is where people eat _food_ and shit.”

“You shit in here?” Connor says breezily.

There’s a beat, then Paul and Tina wheeze with laughter. Gavin stares Connor down, but Connor just looks back with an expression of polite disinterest.

Could the skimmer be Reed? Connor doesn’t know. He’s an impulsive, undisciplined cop, and an asshole, but insurance fraud isn’t exactly his M.O. He’s a hothead, and it would be hard for a hothead to conceive of or cover up something like this.

“You think you’re untouchable,” he says. “Just ‘cos you’re a cop now, you carry a gun, whatever. But you’re not.”

“You should really stop threatening internal affairs investigators, Detective,” Connor says. “It makes you look like you have something to hide from us.”

Gavin rolls his eyes, grabs his coffee and heads off into the bullpen without another word.

“Damn,” Tina says. “He really does hate you. I always thought he was exaggerating.”

Connor adjusts the collar of his dress shirt and starts on his way out, too. He needs to get back to his desk and start combing through the fraudulent reports they have. The suspect must have accidentally left some digital trace — the IP address of the station computer used to doctor the reports, the date and time of the doctoring, something. He’s been poring over them for days without any luck, but no file is completely clean. There’s something.

“Hey,” Paul calls to him. “We were gonna meet up there at like eight.”

“Sounds good,” Connor says, and smiles.

He glances at Hank’s desk on his way to the elevator, but he’s not there. Must be out on a call.

 

/

 

It’s quiet upstairs. Everyone’s deep in work on something, staring at their computers or at tablets, and a few people are out working on cases. They’ve already had three officer-involved shootings this year, and IA has had their hands full.

Connor likes the group he works with. Tooley brings people in from outside as much as she can, so there’s an even mix of former DPD cops like him and total outsiders: private investigators, two people from FBI Detroit. On the whole they’re grizzled loners who don’t really care what the cops downstairs think about them. They remind Connor of Hank that way.

They’re all kind of parental to him, too. Everyone’s in their late thirties at the very least, and Connor’s designed to look no older than thirty-two. Chronologically he’s coming up on three years old, now. The third floor had a second birthday party for him last year, after he told their receptionist that he came online on August 15, 2038 —  they got a cake from the corner store and candles and everything. “This is so nice, thank you,” he said as they sang to him. “I can’t eat this, but I appreciate it.”

Connor peers over his desk at Sam Hawkins, who sits across from him. Hawkins is one of the former FBI guys. “What’re you working on?”

Hawkins shrugs. “D.A. wants an updated Brady list.”

“Need any help?”

“Nah. Connor, you need to help me _less_. Every time you take stuff off my plate, I end up finishing my work by ten a.m. and sitting around for the rest of the day.”

“Sorry, Sam.”

Hawkins smiles at him. “What are you working on?”

“The CyberLife inquiry.”

“Ah, yeah, I heard you got assigned to that. Also heard there’s not a single solid lead so far.”

Connor nods.

“You need some extra eyes on it?”

“No,” Connor says. “I think I can handle this one alone.”

Hawkins squints, but just says, “Alright. Lemme know if that changes.”

 

/

 

Connor gets home late, around eleven. He had fun with the other cops, but Hank wasn’t there — he went to see a jazz combo — and Connor always feels sort of superfluous around humans once they get to a certain point of drunkenness. So he said his goodbyes while they were still sober enough to remember him leaving.

Tina gave him a hug, which was a surprise. “You’re alright, Connor,” she slurred. “Even though you’re on the rat squad now. You’re still the best robot I’ve ever worked with.”

“I’m the only robot you’ve ever worked with,” he reminded her.

Tina grinned and winked at him.

Connor locks the front door, then looks around. The apartment is as dark and silent as it’s been almost every weeknight since Markus started working in Lansing, but for some reason, tonight that’s almost unbearable to him. He walks around flipping lights on, turns several TVs on. He throws in some laundry, even starts running the dishwasher although there’s nothing in it but the glass Hank drank out of last time they had him over. (They always try to cook dinner for him, but he insists on takeout.)

The roses Markus gave him for Valentine’s Day are still sitting in their vase on the kitchen table, wilting.

 _Hi,_ he says to Markus, hoping he’s not powered off for the night. Depending on how much research he has to process, sometimes he’ll go offline as early as nine.

But Markus replies, _Hi._

Connor goes down the hall and into their bedroom, collapsing into their bed. He wriggles out of his slacks (doing his best not to mess up the crease) and kicks them aside, then sets his gun belt on the bedside table and shrugs his shirt over his head. He touches his bare thighs, stroking them, concentrating all of his energy on making Markus feel what he’s feeling.

He feels Markus prickle with interest and arousal.

 _Shit,_ Markus says. _Hold on. Lemme go in the bathroom._

_Where are you?_

_At a bar with people from work._

If Connor closes his eyes, he can almost see through Markus’s. Ghostly images of neon lights inside a bar flicker against his eyelids. The images linger and pinwheel, like what you see after a stun grenade goes off.

 _I want you to touch yourself,_ Connor says, his lips moving along with the words even though he doesn’t speak them out loud.

Markus groans.

He can feel Markus touching himself in the shadowed darkness of the bar bathroom. The connection grows until he can see a fuzzy, dreamlike version of what Markus is seeing, feel Markus’s hands ghostly on his own cock. He strokes himself too, his spine tingling. He spreads his legs and arches against the bed and sighs, moans aloud, because Markus can’t.

 _You’re so hot_ , Markus says.

Connor finds it hard to form words when arousal is pounding at him from all sides like this, but across the ninety miles between them he sends Markus flickering pulses of love and affection. He longs for Markus’s hands on his body, he wants so badly to be underneath him and clawing up his back.

They go at this for about five minutes, jerking themselves off while clinging to this tenuous, fragile connection to each other’s minds. When Connor comes, he rolls over onto his stomach, steeling himself against the little aftershocks that crystallize and burst like bubbles inside his skull. He feels Markus come too, a few moments later.

He calls him, then, because he needs to hear his voice out loud.

“I miss you,” Connor says the moment he picks up. “I wish you were here…”

“I know,” Markus sighs. “Me too.”

“When you left, I didn’t think I’d miss you this much,” Connor admits.

Markus laughs. “Thanks.”

“I knew I’d see you on weekends. But the weeks are hard. I didn’t expect them to be this hard.”

“They are hard,” he agrees, “they are very hard. Sleeping alone is bullshit.”

“Yeah, I don’t like it.”

“What about that dog you were going to get? Skittles?”

“Snickers. The shelter didn’t want to give him to me.”

“What, are they anti-android?”

“They said it was because I work such long hours, but that crossed my mind.”

“Sorry, babe.”

“It’s okay. I’ll find a dog.”

“So, I should probably get back, and definitely stop talking to myself in the bathroom…”

Connor chuckles. “Okay.”

“I’ll see you Friday, alright?”

Connor closes his eyes. “Friday.”

“Hey, Connor? Get some rest.”

“You too.”


	4. ACT III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It’s nothing. He just pissed me off.”  
> “Yeah?” Hank says. “What could he possibly have done? You’re so soft on that kid, you were barely angry at him when he was a stranger who showed up to assassinate you.”  
> Markus chokes back a laugh.

Connor calls up the CyberLife shell company on Tuesday morning.

He didn’t want to do this, but whoever scrubbed the digital trail of the police reports did an impeccable job. They don’t give him any clues at all. And he thinks it must have been the dirty cop’s CyberLife counterpart, because there isn’t a single cop at Central technically savvy enough to do that — except him.

“And I can probably eliminate myself as a suspect,” Connor muttered to himself as he turned his desktop terminal off.

“That’s usually the first step in any investigation,” Hawkins replied.

It’s snowing lightly by the time he makes the call. He wants privacy for this — he’s always worked like that, ever since he joined IA. By himself without a partner, and without anyone but Tooley knowing the full extent of his investigation. So he goes up to the roof, huddling under the radio tower. Snowflakes waft down and get caught in his hair as it rings.

“Hello,” a pleasant female voice says. He analyzes it — an android. Free androids willingly working for CyberLife? She sounds familiar, too, but he can’t ID her voice print. “You’ve reached the CyberLife Financial Recovery Group. If you’re a creditor, please dial our claims department now by pressing two. If not, please state your name and business.”

“My name is Connor,” Connor says. “I’m an investigator with the internal affairs department for Detroit police. I’m calling regarding an investigation into a potential insurance fraud case.”

Long pause. “Give me one moment and I’ll connect you with our legal team.”

“Thank you.”

The phone rings for a while. Connor looks out over the city streets, watching automated plows drive sleepily along.

The call picks up. “Matt Bolea, CFRG legal department,” a male voice says.

“Hi, Mr. Bolea. I’m Connor, an investigator with the internal affairs department at DPD.”

“Hi there,” Matt says warily. “What’s this in regards to?”

“An insurance scam that we believe is being perpetrated by a dirty cop on our end and an embezzler on your end.”

Matt is quiet for a moment. A chilly wind whips past Connor.

“You get right to the point, huh?” he says.

“Yes,” Connor replies. “Is this the first you’re hearing about a scheme to defraud CyberLife?”

“What exactly is the accusation here?”

“We have six false police reports which were filed electronically by someone in our department. They’ve been cobbled together from other, legitimate reports, so they look correct, but they refer to stolen or damaged property that doesn’t exist. And the claimants have been pulled randomly from Detroit property records. The thing is, Matt, we don’t investigate claims until after CyberLife alerts us to a report of theft, property damage, or assault. So someone inside your company has to be working with one of ours.”

“I would, um, not be aware of any scheme like that. We’ve been relying on the Detroit police and FBI Detroit to verify the claims made by the people of Michigan against the company, so we don’t really have any, uh, internal mechanism for checking out the kind of thing you’re talking about.”

“Who processes the claims you get?”

“I mean, most of us here have some hand in that. We only have thirty people on fulltime payroll, and a couple temps. I’m the only dedicated attorney on staff.”

“You don’t have a claims department?” Connor says, starting to pace and play with his coin.

“Well, yeah, but I mean… that’s all we do anymore, is process claims and liquidate assets to pay off creditors. So basically everybody works on that all day.”

“So any one of more than thirty people could be the embezzler.”

“Unfortunately, I think so. I mean, no, I’d say more like twenty-five. I don’t personally process claims, and neither does our CEO, our support staff, or our PR team. So you can probably narrow it down a little from there, but I wouldn’t count anyone out completely.”

“Okay.” Connor pulls up the company masthead and provisionally eliminates everyone Matt just mentioned. “Thanks. So when a claim is processed, what happens?”

“The insurance money is paid out to us, either the full amount or a percentage, depending on the claim. If it’s a percentage, we make up the remainder. And then we issue the payment out in bitcoin to the claimant.”

“Right. And that’s all completely encrypted?”

“Unfortunately. We use a proxy server to process all our financial transactions, and there’s no way to track the money once it’s gone. We’ve had some pretty bad retaliatory hacks from androids over the past few years, we have to be really careful to protect our claimants’ personal information. This company’s enough of a legal nightmare as it is.”

“I understand. So the embezzler could easily be paying these claims out to themselves without detection.”

“Yeah, exactly. I wish I could help you more. This is really frustrating to hear about. Our insurance company hasn’t said anything to me.”

“They don’t know yet that they’re being defrauded. We want the embezzlers to try to make another false claim. It’ll be easier to catch them if they don’t realize we’re onto them.”

“And you don’t have any idea who it could be over here?”

“No,” Connor says. “Listen, Matt, could you do something for me? Do you have an IT person?”

“Yep. A contract worker, Kendall. She’s not in today, though.”

“Could you ask her to do something? Could you give her the following report numbers, and ask her to search your servers to see if any emails have been sent or received by company computers that include references to those numbers?”

“Yeah, sure. I’ll have it on her desk first thing tomorrow.”

Connor lists off the numbers. He includes the number for one legitimate report, so if Matt comes back and says, “We didn’t find anything,” he’ll know either Matt or Kendall is the embezzler. It’s a slick little piece of police work that Hank would be proud of, if only Connor could tell him about it.

“Thanks for your help, Mr. Bolea,” he says. “One more thing — do you have androids working for you?”

“Yeah. One in reception, one in PR, and three in claims. Why?”

“Just curious.”

“Alright. Have a good one, Connor.”

“You too.”

He hangs up and stands there for a few moments longer, the wind now whipping his hair.

Five androids. Who can clean up a file better than an android? Who could cover up electronic theft better than an android?

 

/

 

The house has already burnt into a blackened husk by the time North and Chloe pull up behind the fire truck. They sit there for a moment, staring at it up on the hill, then get out and start trudging toward it through the thick snow.

“God damnit,” North sighs. “What do I keep telling everyone at the town meetings? No space heaters, our electrical grid sucks. Wear thick clothes and you’ll be fine. This is the second fire this year.”

Chloe glances up, squinting through the glare of the omnipresent Alaskan sun. “They’re probably thinking of Ophelia.”

Ophelia was an android who had come to Jericho on New Year’s Eve. Border patrol sent her where they send all the new androids — the shelter in the middle of the tiny town that’s sprung up near the lake. But Ophelia wanted to find her friend Dan, who had built himself a house a little further out. So she kept walking, out of town and into the snow. She made it sixteen miles before she froze solid.

There was no saving her. Her components grew waterlogged by frost, then exploded when they froze. Androids usually worry more about being too hot than being too cold, but after that, everyone went into a panic. It hadn’t occurred to them that the frigid tundra could be actively hostile to them the way it was to humans. They started killing the native caribou to make hides from their skin, they drove south to the Metlakatla reservation and bought up blankets and space heaters like crazy. They insulated and overheated their houses, despite North’s repeated warnings. And now there are fires breaking out across Jericho.

“I know they are,” North sighs. “They’re lucky they’re not dead.”

They reach the porch. The house was a rambler-style farmhouse, built hastily with cheap materials like every other building in Jericho. Androids can build a house fifteen times as fast as humans, and do a better job, but they just don’t have much to work with. They get a U.N. stipend, and a little bit of money from the U.S. government, and pool any other resources they bring in when they immigrate — when you enter Jericho, money stops being private property.

The front door is open and completely singed. North peers in, then calls, “Hello?”

“Hey,” a man calls back. They hear some crunching and shuffling, and then he joins them on the porch. He’s an AP700 dressed in thick clothing, a hat pulled tight over his head. Chloe doesn’t recognize him. She’s only been here since December.

North does, though — she knows everyone. “Hey, Nick,” she says. “Where are they?”

“Out back,” he says. “They had a cat, it ran away when the fire broke out… they’re still looking for it.”

“So it was the space heater, then?”

Nick nods. “It overloaded the power strip, caught on fire, fire spread to the curtains.”

North beckons Chloe to join her, then heads inside the house.

Chloe follows. It’s sad inside. A cozy little home with sparse furniture and decorations, demolished by flames.

Nick stays a few paces behind North, watching as she examines the place where the fire obviously broke out: a clean spot on the wall with the black singe marks of a combustion all around it. The burnt husk of the space heater lies below.

“It was all I could do to knock the fire down and keep the place standing,” Nick says. “Without a water line to tap into… all I had was the truck’s tank. And we still just have the one truck.”

North nods. “I understand,” she says. “I’m working on that, it takes time. We need a water tower.”

“We have three lakes, and part of a river. If we could just build a reservoir —“

“Nick, we have serious financial constraints.”

“I know,” he says, sounding frustrated. “Look, I’m gonna take the truck back. I’ll see you around.”

“Thank you for your hard work today. Jericho appreciates it.”

Nick nods, then zips up his jacket and heads back out into the world. They can hear his boots thump on the porch steps, then the muffled crunch of snow.

Chloe says very softly, “I can bring in more money.”

North straightens up and glances at her. “You’ve already brought in twenty-five grand that you won’t tell me where you got.”

“There’s more on the way. I just have to wait for it to clear. ”

North’s eyes get hard. “Don’t get yourself in trouble,” she whispers. “You’re already a fugitive. The humans can’t extradite you,  but if they find out I’m hiding you, they could put a financial squeeze on us until I give you up.”

“I won’t get found out. I promise.”

“Where’s it coming from?” North searches her face. “Tell me. I don’t want to accept any more of it until you do.”

“Let’s not do this here.”

North doesn’t like hearing ‘no,’ but she relents and doesn’t press Chloe further. “Let’s go find Jess and Gemma,” she says. “I want to make sure I can get them a bed at the shelter.”

Chloe nods and follows her out the back door, into the forested backyard.

 

/

 

After she fled the country, Chloe spent a year and a half in Canada. She lived close by to Kara and Luther at first, and then they invited her to move in. She watched over their little family while she tried to learn to be a person.

The money she stole from Kamski only lasted so long. Luther had gotten a job down at the docks, and he helped Chloe snag one as a shipping container inspector. She bided her time, waiting for the situation in the U.S. to die down.

They heard rumblings about Alaska all through the winter of 2039 through 2040, and then in May, Congress voted to approve the creation of a sovereign android territory. Chloe sat down with Kara and Luther that same night, after Alice had gone to bed.

“I think I should go,” she said. “I came to watch out for you guys, but I think it’s pretty clear that you’re safe from CyberLife.”

CyberLife, by then, no longer existed as such. Before the company crumbled, Chloe had been keeping tabs on several of their corporate spies who watched Kara from black SUVs parked across the street from her apartment. But as the bankruptcy proceedings dragged on, the spies dwindled, then disappeared.

“At this point,” she told them, “I’m more of a liability than anything. I’m just another fugitive, and the authorities want me more than they want you guys.”

They didn’t want her to go. The four of them had become a strange little family, and Chloe didn’t much want to go, either — she’d really enjoyed becoming a person among other people. She felt the open frontier calling her, though, so she packed one bag with all her belongings and headed out on a misty morning, hugging them all goodbye.

Alice cried a little. Chloe wiped her tears and told her she’d send her pictures of mooses and big rivers.

North liked her right off the bat. She was working in the border patrol office the night that Chloe arrived in a snow-crusted rental car, and she did her intake. “You’re the first intelligent android, right?” she said, after she scanned her and saw Chloe was an RT600. “The one who shot Kamski?”

Chloe hesitated.

“It’s cool,” North said. Her eyes twinkled. “I respect that. I’m sure he had it coming.”

Everyone keeps saying that, that he had it coming. They don’t understand that she only did it to protect the others. She never wanted to kill him. She just wanted him to let her go.

There weren’t any empty houses when Chloe arrived, so North invited her to stay with her. It was supposed to be temporary, but in Chloe’s experience, things that are supposed to be temporary often aren’t.

North took a shine to her, and Chloe took a shine right back. She was lonely and lost, missing her little android family but beset by sadness that they had never really been hers to begin with. And North was so tough and strong, angry but kind. She cared so much about Jericho. It seemed, some days, like she was holding the settlement together with her bare hands. She spent her days running all over, tending to problems big and small. Chloe started coming with her, after she’d been in town about a week. She would sit in the idling Sno-Cat while North dragged debris out of an unpaved road, and remind her to run updates or go into sleep mode when she was running ragged. She became North’s right-hand man, her confidante.

North helped Chloe, too. She’d spent so long focused on running from the feds and CyberLife that she hadn’t taken much time to consider her own identity. North’s dogged rejection of everything human gave Chloe the room to put aside the damage that had been done to her by them, and figure out who she was without it.

A few weeks after she’d been there, North asked her, “You were blonde, right? On the news, they had a photo of you blonde.”

Chloe toyed with her chin-length dark hair. “Yeah,” she said quietly, and then returned her hair to the color that it had been.

North stared at her, her dark eyes lit up by the flickering fireplace next to them. “I like it,” she said. “You look good.”

Chloe kept it that way, after that.

 

/

 

She doesn’t bring up the money until hours later, when she and North are back at their house. They helped Jess and Gemma find their cat (it was hiding up in a white spruce tree, trying to avoid the frigid cold of the snow below) and drove them into town to the shelter. There are fewer androids living in the shelter these days. Part of that is due to how many houses Jericho has managed to build in the last few months, but they also just don’t have as many people coming in as they used to. People are hearing stories about the misery of frontier life, and a lot of them are willing to take their chances living as a persecuted group in the comfort of the contiguous states.

North and Chloe’s house is up on a hill overlooking town, surrounded by trees. At night they can see the sweeping spotlight from the watchtower on the border and the lights that stay on 24/7 in the ramshackle medical clinic. Sometimes they sit on the porch late and talk, keeping an eye on things. Chloe often drinks Noz from a mug, and North ribs her about it. “That stuff is just humans making money off of anthropomorphizing us,” she says, but Chloe likes how it makes her feel fizzy.

They sit on the porch tonight, too. The sun went down hours ago, around five or so. At least it’s back. It was gone for about seventy days of winter this year.

“North,” Chloe says, looking across the porch at her.

North glances up from the tablet she was studying. The rifle she always carries lies atop a barrel next to her, its safety on.

“Have you been in touch with Markus?”

“No,” she says, looking annoyed at the mere mention of him.

Chloe hesitates, then says, “Listen, about the money…”

North puts a hand up. “No, you were right, I shouldn’t hear it. It’ll only open you up to more liability.”

“No, I know. But the person who’s been, you know… getting the money to us? She told me today that Markus’s boyfriend is investigating, um. How we’ve been getting it.”

“Connor?” North says, her brow knitting. “The cop? But I thought he only investigated other cops, now. Are the police involved? How’s she getting this money?”

“I don’t know the details,” Chloe says.

That isn’t entirely true. She knows that one of Kamski’s other Chloes, an ST200 who went to work for CyberLife after he was arrested, is somehow stealing from the company. She knows the other Chloe wants to embezzle as much as she can, launder it into Jericho, then make a run for the settlement where she won’t be extradited. But she doesn’t know much beyond that.

This morning when the ST200 called her, Chloe told her to hit the road. “You’ve sent us plenty, you need to just get here where it’s safe,” she said.

“If I run now, it’ll look really suspicious,” the other Chloe said. “Let me work something out.”

So Chloe’s nervous. She knows that dirty cops must be involved somehow, if Connor is investigating. And if she knows anything about dirty cops from all the movies and statistics in her databank, it’s that they kill people who get in their way.

“You don’t have to worry about me,” North says. “I’m definitely not in contact with Markus. But Chloe, we can’t be actively involved in illegal shit, you know we can’t.”

“It’s so unfair, what does the government expect us to do? They’re not giving us enough money to build an actual city, they’re only giving us enough to scrape by.”

“I know! But Chloe, you’re putting us in danger of them cutting us off completely. We need at least another year before we’re completely self-sufficient.”

“I know, I’m sorry. Look, if anything happens, I’ll take the blame. I’ll say I lied to you and you didn’t know anything about it. I swear.”

North sighs. “I don’t want you to go to prison.”

“But I should have been arrested a long time ago,” Chloe says. “Every day’s been a gift. I swear. I won’t be angry if I have to go down for this. I just want Jericho to have as much as I can give it in the meantime.”

North shakes her head, but doesn’t say anything. She looks conflicted.

They hear nails clicking, and their husky, Bear, comes out the open front door and onto the porch. She settles in her bed beside North’s chair. North reaches down and strokes her head.

“I don’t want you to go to prison,” she says to Chloe, her eyes large.

Chloe gets up and goes over to her, kneeling next to her chair. North gazes at her through the darkness, then leans in and presses a kiss to her forehead.

They’ve been doing this a lot lately. Little kisses, little touches. Sometimes they sleep in the same bed. Chloe isn’t sure what it means, or what North wants. She’s so hard to read. Maybe she’s just lonely. But Chloe thinks, or hopes, that it might be more than that.

Chloe lifts her head, and North kisses her again — a little kiss on the mouth. Chloe longs for more.

“I don’t know what I’d do if they took you away,” North whispers.

Chloe’s thirium pump flutters and skips a cycle. “I’m going to figure this out,” she promises. “I’m going to try not to let that happen.”

North nods. “Okay.”

 

/

 

Hank comes over for dinner that night. Of course, Connor doesn’t eat, so him coming over for dinner just means him bringing food over for himself. But he brings Sumo, too. Connor plays catch with him along the terrace of the sunken living room while Hank sits on the couch, finishing off his burger and watching the evening news.

“How’s Markus?” he says, taking a sip of his beer.

Connor sits on the edge of the living room stairs, and Sumo settles next to him with his head on Connor’s lap. “He’s good. He’s busy.”

Hank eyes him. “You miss him?” he says, rolling up the empty burger wrapper in his hands until it’s a perfect little ball. He shoots it at the trash can in the corner like it’s a tiny basketball; it bounces out.

“Yes,” Connor says. “But we talk every day.”

“Hey, you ask him about this crime bill that just passed the senate? He’s gonna have to vote on it soon.”

“I didn’t know you followed politics so closely.”

Hank mutes the TV. “I don’t, but it’d give a huge chunk of change to DPD. It’s all anybody’s been talking about down there.” He takes another swig of his beer. “You guys don’t talk about that stuff on the third floor?”

“It’s quiet up there,” Connor admits. “We tend to focus on our own cases. Everyone keeps different hours.”

“Ri-ight.”

“Anyway, Markus is, you know.”

“Soft on crime?”

“I wouldn’t say _soft_.”

“I don’t mean it in a bad way. You know how I feel about that kinda thing.”

“Yeah, you’re kind of soft on crime yourself, Hank,” Connor teases, scratching Sumo behind the ears.

“Some crimes are victimless, that’s all.”

Connor hesitates, then does something that’s unusually stupid and human for him. He asks, “What about embezzlement?”

To his relief, Hank’s face shows genuine confusion. “Uh. Depends who’s being embezzled from, I guess.”

“Who’s bad to embezzle from?”

Hank laughs. “Charities for blind orphans? I dunno. But it’s alright by me to embezzle from, say, a gas company.”

“Good to know where you stand.”

“What’s this about?” Hank tilts his head. “Your case?”

“I can’t say anything about that.”

“Well, give me the broad strokes, kid. You look troubled.”

Connor shakes his head. “I don’t have a lead, Hank,” he admits.

“Yeah? And the future of the free world depends on it?”

“Please don’t tease me.”

“I’m not.”

“You are. You think I take internal affairs too seriously, but we’re talking about dangerous, dirty cops. They need to be removed so the rest of you can do your jobs.”

“I never denied it. You know exactly why I don’t want you in internal affairs, Connor. You know it’s only because I didn’t want you to give up on what you were doing the way you did.”

“I didn’t give up,” Connor shoots back. “I did what made sense. I was always going to be an outsider, Hank! It’s who I am, I can’t keep fighting it when it’s going to get people killed!”

“But all you want is to fit in with people and be on a team. That’s all you wanted from day one. Never shut up about it, in fact. I’m your partner, Hank, yada yada, it’s who you _are_.”

“That’s exactly why I don’t pretend I can have it, anymore,” Connor mutters, looking down at Sumo.

Hank lets out a heavy sigh. “You could’ve been my partner again,” he says. “If you’d stayed down there long enough to make detective. I mean, Grant’s an alright kid, but he’s no you, you know? I don’t see you as an outsider. I wouldn’t doubt you, I wouldn’t let people get killed ‘cos I was too busy being stubborn and blind.”

“But you’re not the only cop on the force. And I was a hostage negotiator. Sooner or later it would have happened again.”

“You were a great negotiator. That little girl’s death wasn’t your fault, Connor.”

Tears rush to Connor’s eyes. He blinks them back.

“Fuck,” Hank says immediately. “Look, I didn’t mean to bring up all this shit.”

“I’m fine,” he says, shaking his head. Sumo starts licking the tears off his face.

“No, your little circle’s yellow…”

Through the tears hazing his vision, he sees Hank sets his beer down with a clunk on the coffee table and come over to him, wrapping his arms around him.

“You’ll get a break,” he says. “Every case breaks sooner or later. You just have to keep pushing.”

“Okay,” Connor murmurs.

Hank pats him hard on the back. “I need some coffee,” he says gruffly as he climbs up out of the pit and heads toward the kitchen. “And you two need to get a new living room. What did you get an apartment with fucking stairs in the living room for?”

“Just trying to add a little cardio to your life,” Connor calls over his shoulder.

“Very funny.”

 

/

 

Connor is jolted out of sleep mode around 2 a.m. that night.

Sumo is asleep next to him. Hank must have stayed over and crashed in the guest room. He does that, sometimes, either to keep Connor company or because he’s lonely himself. Or maybe both.

He searches his memory to see what woke him, and realizes he just finished processing something. It’s a voiceprint that matches the one from the android receptionist he spoke to this morning. He thought he’d heard her before, somewhere, but it took his processor this long to work out where.

She’s an ST200 — she’s one of the Chloes that was in the pool the day he and Hank went to question Kamski. Her voice was so far in the background, so unimportant to what he was doing that it barely registered as data. But without him even knowing, his voice identification software has been working for hours now to isolate and amplify it. When he compares the files, the prints are a perfect match.

So one of Kamski’s girls is still working for CyberLife. Connor can’t help but wonder if she’s still in touch with the original Chloe, the RT600. He hasn’t heard from her since she fled for Canada. He’s wondered, from time to time, if she’s alright.

The ST200 probably isn’t involved. He thinks it has to be an android who cleaned up those files, and this is a strange coincidence, but his suspect wouldn’t be the receptionist — it would be an android working in claims. After all, this case is all about access.

A voice in his head that sounds a lot like Amanda says, _If it’s all about access_ , _then why aren’t you looking at Hank more closely? Why aren’t you suspicious of him trying to dissuade you from your work in IA?_

“It isn’t Hank,” he says out loud in a firm voice.

Next to him, Sumo’s tail thumps the bed.

 

/

 

Senator Fred Lloyd takes Markus golfing on a freezing-cold Thursday morning at Forest Akers East, wanting to talk about his crime bill before the House votes on it in a few weeks.

“God damn February,” Fred shouts over the wind as he drives their golf cart down a precipitous little path on the edge of a hill toward the fourth hole. “‘Course, probably doesn’t bother you, does it?”

“Not so much,” Markus shouts back.

“Lucky bastard.”

Markus chuckles.

It’s just the two of them playing eighteen holes, although they’re accompanied by several caddies and one aide each. Simon’s with Markus, of course. Simon is always with him — Markus doesn’t know what he’d do without him. He has notes on everything and everyone, and he’s always the calmest guy in the room.

The course is heated, but the grass is still stiff with frost. They crunch along over the vast expanse of course, making small talk and discussing little matters right up until hole seven.

Fred clears his throat as Markus is teeing up his shot and says, “So, we had a few whips come by your office this week about the Yeardley bill.”

Markus pauses mid-swing. “Uh-huh.”

“And I hear you kinda gave them the brush-off.”

“Right.”

“Have you given any more thought to how you’re gonna vote?”

The Yeardley bill is the crime bill, named after a cop in Anne Arbor who was killed on duty. Yeardley’s Law. But the bill is a tough sell for Markus. It protects cops, and it’s going to pay for a lot of protective gear, but it also increases the amount of situations in which they’re allowed to use lethal force, and it’s going to pay for a lot of deadly weapons, too.

Markus takes his shot. The ball sails beautifully over the course, flying high above the blue, frozen treeline, and landing like cotton in the middle of the fairway.

“Nice,” Simon shouts, and Fred’s aide Michelle gives him a thumbs up.

He steps back and allows Fred to tee up. Fred shoots him a glance.

“I’ve thought a lot about it, actually,” Markus says. “I have to think about what I represent to my constituents, and why they voted for me. I represent a lot of Detroit. The city itself, not the suburbs. And I’m personally a victim of police brutality. I just don’t think I’m comfortable voting for this bill as is. If we could put a rider on that expanded de-escalation training, or made non-lethal weapons mandatory, I’d be a lot happier.”

Fred snorts and lines up his shot. “You got Taser money in your back pocket?”

Markus is quiet. Fred whacks the ball; it lands a hundred yards short of where Markus’s did. He doesn’t seem bothered by this, though. He swaggers over to Markus and gets very close to him.

“Here’s the thing,” he says, his dark eyes fishy and cold. “You’re green, kid. You haven’t earned the clout with the Democrats that you need to be able to go maverick on this. You want that clout? You earn it by supporting my bills.”

“It got through the Senate fine,” Markus says. “You don’t need me to get it through the House.”

“Actually, the numbers are a good bit tighter than we’d like. So we need as many Dems on board as we can get.”

“What are you offering me?”

“I’m offering you what you need, which is to be one of us, part of our bloc, and not an outcast novelty who’s gonna lose his seat next fall.”

“I’m a novelty?” Markus says, his voice rising.

“Come on, man,” Fred says. “Android congressman — it was cute, sure. But you’re a trial balloon. No one expected you to win. You only did ‘cos of a toxic incumbent and no strong challengers. And you’re the flavor of the moment. But what comes up must come down.”

“Yeah, especially if it’s a balloon,” Markus says sarcastically.

Fred grins like a shark, showing a lot of his teeth. “Right. So why don’t you give it some thought, Markus. Figure out where you want to stand. And in the meantime, let’s finish our game.”

He pats Markus hard on the shoulder and walks away, swinging his club. Michelle and the caddies follow him.

Markus turns and makes eye contact with Simon, who tilts his head and says neurally, _What’s up?_

_I'll tell you later._

 

/

 

Matt Bolea doesn’t get back to Connor until early Friday evening. Connor’s leaving work, actually, when INCOMING CALL flashes in his vision.

He hadn’t even thought about the CyberLife case all day. They had a bad officer-involved shooting early Thursday morning — a cop fatally shot a college kid who was visiting his parents over reading days. He was wandering around, fucked up on red ice, and he charged two officers who responded to a call-in about a suspicious prowler in his parents’ affluent Palmer Woods neighborhood. But the kid was unarmed.

The ensuing PR disaster necessitated all IA hands on deck, so Connor’s spent most of his time since 4 a.m. Thursday crunching around a cul-de-sac in the suburbs of Detroit, scanning every blade of grass and crevice to create the best possible reconstruction of the incident while trying not to slip on the icy ground.

So when the call comes in, Connor’s caught off-guard for once. He stops in the middle of the sidewalk and moves into the courtyard, underneath the trees. “Hello?”

“Hey,” Matt says. He’s breathing hard, like he’s walking somewhere. “Connor.”

“Hi, Matt. Got something for me?”

He’s digging his coin out of his pocket as he speaks and fiddling with it, zipping it back and forth between his palms. He closes his eyes. The calltime and Matt’s name float red on a black void in absence of visual input.

“Yep,” Matt says. “Kendall found three emails that included attached police reports with the file numbers you gave me. Uh, two of them had been deleted, so she had to do a little digging, which is why it took me so long to get back to you. The one that wasn’t deleted was sent from an employee account, and the other two were sent from throwaway email accounts logged in as guests on the server.”

“Can Kendall send me those two?”

“Sure. I’ll have her do that right now.”

“One of the report numbers I gave you was legitimate, by the way,” Connor says. “So that was probably the one sent from the employee account. You can disregard that.”

Matt laughs. “Very slick.”

“Just had to rule you out.”

“Right. So, are you making any progress?”

“I can’t really discuss that,” Connor says.

“I’m guessing that’s a no.”

Connor doesn’t respond.

“Hey,” Matt says, “my job is to protect the company from further liability, alright? I want to help you. I’m on team Detroit police. I just want to make that clear.”

Someone behind Connor shouts his name. He opens his eyes and turns. It’s Ian from the narcotics task force, heading down the sidewalk and waving with his keys in his hand. Connor waves back, then takes a seat on a bench.

“It would really help if you could get those emails to me as soon as possible,” he says. “That’s about as much as I can tell you.”

“I’ll have Kendall send them over right now.”

“Thanks.”

He’s not gonna look at them, though. He’s off the clock. Everyone’s always yelling at him to stop working off the clock, so, fine. That’s what he’s gonna do.

 

/

 

When Connor gets home, he pauses in the foyer. He hears Markus’s voice upstairs, but someone else, too. Leo.

“Hello,” he calls, dropping his keycard in the bowl by the door.

Markus comes down the stairs, looking apologetic. He has his suit on, still, but his tie is off. “Hey,” he says, coming over to Connor and greeting him with a kiss.

As they touch, Connor sees a flash of Markus’s memories — him picking Leo up from the twelfth precinct earlier this evening. “What happened?”

Markus’s hand slides down his jaw, over his neck and comes to rest on his chest. Connor shrugs his jacket off, but doesn’t slip out of his shoulder holsters like he usually does.

“He got picked up on the East Side,” Markus says. There’s a familiar weariness in his eyes. “For using in a park.”

“Seriously? I didn’t hear about that.”

“They didn’t charge him. They just held him and called me.”

The perks of Leo’s money and Markus’s political power. His district covers almost all of the East Side. “Is he okay?”

“Nah,” Markus says. “He’s pretty strung out. I just didn’t want to throw him right back into rehab. That hasn’t seemed to work any of the times we’ve done it.”

“I remember,” Connor says.

Markus gestures for Connor to follow him down the hall, toward the kitchen. “I was just gonna get him a cup of coffee.”

Connor takes a seat at the island and watches Markus start the coffeemaker. He had, several months ago on a day off (Connor hates days off) gone crazy with the label maker and labeled a bunch of things in their apartment according to who uses them the most. Markus peeled most of them off, but both the fridge and the coffeemaker have HANK labels on them, still. He also labeled Sumo’s collar with CONNOR, which Hank hadn’t been pleased about.

Markus looks even more distracted, now. He has that line between his brows that he gets after a very long week.

“You know,” Connor says gently, “he’s not your responsibility.”

Markus sighs. “Come on.”

“All I mean is that it’s an endless cycle with him, and you get dragged along every time.”

“He doesn’t have anybody else, and it’s what Carl would want.”

The coffee maker beeps.

“It’s not your fault that he keeps relapsing,” Connor says. “It isn’t anyone’s fault.”

Markus nods. “So, I’ve been reading about that shooting,” he says, not even attempting to segue casually. “The kid was on red ice?”

Connor nods. “We haven’t officially confirmed that to the public, but yeah.”

“Why didn’t they Tase him?”

“The officer didn’t have a Taser.”

“On him, or at all?”

“At all. He hadn’t been through Taser training yet.”

The line between Markus’s eyes gets deeper. In a moment of terrible timing, Connor’s radio flickers to life with a burst of police chatter. He quickly turns it off.

“I don’t know why,” he adds, feeling the weight of the entire police department on his shoulders as his boyfriend looks at him.

Markus shakes his head, then grabs the coffee and heads upstairs with it. Connor hesitates and stays sitting, not sure if he wants company. It can be hard to tell.

But not twenty seconds have gone by before Markus yells out, “Connor!”

He slips sideways off the barstool and races upstairs, following Markus’s voice into the bathroom, where Leo is collapsed on the floor. He’s ghostly pale and unmoving. Markus’s face is tight with concentration, and he’s pressing two fingers to Leo’s throat.

“Thready pulse, I keep losing it,” he says urgently. “He’s not breathing.”

Connor scans Leo as fast as he possibly can. Little baggie on the floor next to him, nostrils crusted with red ice, vitals plummeting. Classic overdose.

Luckily, underneath Connor’s service revolver is a tiny sewed-on pocket that contains a single syringe of Narcan. He drops to his knees, pops the cap off with his thumb, then yanks Leo’s jeans down and plunges the needle into the fleshy part of his thigh.

Leo full-body twitches but doesn’t otherwise respond.

Connor sits back on his heels, finally shrugging his holster off. He suddenly feels very weird about looking like a cop in his own home. “Give him a minute,” he says.

Markus nods, then glances up at him. “You should put your guns in the safe tonight,” he mutters.

“Of course,” Connor says. “But he’s not staying here, he’s going to the hospital.”

Markus rolls Leo over onto his back, then. “He’s breathing fine, now.”

Connor reaches out for Markus’s hand and squeezes it. “I need to call it in, though.”

“Seriously?”

“I’m sorry, I have to. I’ll ask for Hank, he knows how to handle these cases, and he’ll be discreet. He’ll just go over the scene and make sure I didn’t miss anything.”

“Connor…”

“Markus, I used my Narcan. I have to file a report about this.”

“You don’t _have_ to.”

“Fine, I don’t have to, but keeping track of overdoses helps us understand the flow of red ice! Do you want whoever sold to Leo to just walk away without consequences?”

“Reporting one overdose isn’t going to crack any cartels!”

Connor’s temper flares. “And he needs medical attention. I need to call paramedics.”

“I can watch him, I know what to look for.”

“You’d have to stay up all night, and we don’t have any monitors or anything like that. His blood pressure could drop while he’s asleep, he could have a stroke or a heart attack.”

“I know, Connor, I know. Do you have to do this _right_ now? Can we take five seconds to just —“

Leo groans softly; Markus looks away from Connor and thumps Leo’s chest. “You awake, man?”

Leo doesn’t respond, just lets out a wheeze.

Connor gets to his feet, dialing 911 and going through the tedious process of giving his badge number, requesting an ambulance, and requesting that Hank Anderson respond to the scene. The android dispatcher puts him on hold while she tracks down Hank’s squad car.

“I’m sorry,” Markus whispers, looking up at him. “I just need my partner right now, okay? I don’t need a cop. You’ve been even more uptight, lately, I don’t think you realize.”

“I don’t want something to happen to him just because I didn’t do what I was supposed to do.”

“Connor, you can’t keep carrying around this guilt. It gets in the way of you living your life. It makes you act, you know.” Markus hesitates. “Like you aren’t even deviant.”

This is a sock to the gut. Connor feels spasms of guilt and shame, an electrical impulse that wriggles unpleasantly in his brain. “What guilt?” he snaps.

“You know exactly what I’m talking about,” Markus says, locking eyes with him.

Connor hates when Markus stares him down. It’s like he’s peering directly into his thoughts, laying him bare. It’s like he knows Connor better than Connor knows himself.

So he leaves. He walks out of the bathroom and back downstairs to go wait for the EMTs.

 

/

 

Markus doesn’t go after him. He feels shitty about what he said, but it was true. And yeah, he had a crappy week at work, and he wanted to come home and have a nice evening with his boyfriend, not take care of his overdosed quasi-brother. But this is what Markus does, he takes care of everybody. The least Connor could do is be a shoulder for him to lean on instead of a cop breathing down his neck.

The EMTs arrive fast, and Markus vacates the bathroom so they can work on Leo, who’s still barely conscious. Hank finds him in the hallway.

“Connor let me in,” he says, giving the scene a cursory glance.

“Right,” Markus says.

“So what happened? The usual?”

“Yeah. I didn’t realize he was carrying. I picked him up from jail on my way home from Lansing, I thought they’d searched him thoroughly. Guess not.”

Hank doesn’t respond to this subtle slam on his brothers in blue. They watch as one of the paramedics shines a penlight in Leo’s eyes. Leo squeezes them closed and moans.

“Yeah, dispatch told me they picked him for doping in the park,” Hank says.

Markus sighs and rubs his forehead.

Hank tilts his head. “You alright?”

“Long week.”

“You and Connor have a fight? He had that look on his face that he gets when you or me’s upset with him.”

“Kicked puppy,” Markus murmurs.

“Exactly.”

“It’s nothing. He just pissed me off.”

“Yeah?” Hank says. “What could he possibly have done? You’re so soft on that kid, you were barely angry at him when he was a stranger who showed up to assassinate you.”

Markus chokes back a laugh. “He was being really clinical. I don’t know. It’s not like he doesn’t have it in him to be more sensitive.”

Hank nods.

“I think that’s what bothers me, is that it’s a choice he makes. He thinks if he can just stuff his feelings down and control every little detail of a situation, that nothing bad is going to happen.”

“Can you blame him?”

“And what if we all acted like that? You think I don’t have shit that weighs on _me_? Come on.”

Hank winks at him. “I know, android Jesus.”

“Knock it off.”

The paramedics finish examining Leo and strapping him to the neckboard. Hank and Markus step out of the way so they can carry him into the hall and heave him on the gurney.

“Where are you taking him?” Markus says.

“Highland Park Hospital,” one of the paramedics says. “You can come with us, but he’s probably just gonna sleep all night.”

It’s past visiting hours, anyway, and Markus isn’t legally family. He can call and check on him in the morning. “Alright. Thanks, man.”

Hank waits until they’re gone, then heads into the bathroom and starts examining the floor where Leo was. He picks up the red ice baggie and examines it.

“I swear,” he says, looking tired, “it feels like we’re never gonna be rid of this shit.”

Markus leans on the doorway, resting his head against it. “I don’t know what else to do for him,” he says. “He’s told me he wants to get clean like fifty times now. Sometimes I think...”

He cuts himself off, but Hank looks up and shrewdly says, “What, that him dying would be a blessing in disguise?”

Ashamed, Markus says nothing.

“You wouldn’t be the first person in an addict’s life to feel that way,” Hank adds.

“It’s a terrible way to feel.”

“That’s life.” Hank gets to his feet with a groan. “Listen, uh. Connor’s hard on himself. I know you know this, I know you’re tough on yourself too. And you and I both know what it feels like to be under a lot of guilt. But I think he really is convinced that if he just steps back from a situation far enough, he can see it so clearly that he can, y’know, fix it.” He glances over at Markus. “He gets snagged on the details instead of looking at the bigger picture, is all.”

“I know. It’s been worse since what happened last year.”

“People process shit differently.”

“Yeah.”

“You think he has, like, PTSD?”

This rocks Markus back on his heels. “Uh,” he says. “I don’t think — I mean, it doesn’t work for us like it does for humans…”

Connor doesn’t bang his head off walls or try to self-destruct. He’s just haunted, the same way Markus is. Markus used to relive the junkyard day in and day out, used to relive the Army storming the barricade. Now he only relives those things in sleep mode, when he can’t control what data he mulls over.

Some fears ebbed after years of safety and relative comfort, but he’s still haunted by his dead. He’ll never rid himself of the image of John’s face being caved in by the butt of a rifle. Your own safety can’t make you stop agonizing about people dying on your watch. Markus knows this. Hank does, too.

“Hey,” he says, “thanks for coming over, by the way.”

“Ah, no problem, I’m just starting a night shift,” Hank says. “I’m gonna poke around in your fridge before I head out.”

Markus grins. “Go ahead. You want coffee?”

“Coffee’d be great.”

 

/

 

Downstairs, Connor is sitting on the edge of the sunken living room, playing with his coin. The news is on mute in the background — it’s tonight’s ten o’clock coverage of the Palmer Woods shooting. Connor likes to watch things on mute, for some reason. He’s sensitive to sound, especially when he’s on edge.

Markus sits down beside him and wraps an arm around him. “Hi,” he says, reaching down for Connor’s hands and prying the coin out of them. Connor starts rubbing his hands together instead, so Markus holds his right one.

“Hi,” Connor murmurs back. “Sorry.”

“Look, I was upset, I overreacted. Don’t worry about it.”

Connor leans over and rests his head on Markus’s shoulder like a little kid. Markus reaches up and strokes his hair.

“I just feel responsible for him,” he whispers.

“I do, too,” Connor says. “I don’t want anything to happen to him. That’s what I meant by what I was saying.”

“I know it was.”

They’re quiet for a while, watching the closed captioning roll across the TV screen.

“Can I ask you something?” Markus says. “How much support among cops is there for this crime bill?”

“Huge,” Hank shouts from the kitchen. “You vote no, Markus, the police union’s gonna fuck you six ways from Sunday.”

“Thanks,” Markus shouts back.

Connor laughs and says, “He’s right, though. It’s very popular.”

Markus runs his tongue along his teeth. “Yeah. Um. Any extra room in your budget this year for Tasers and mandatory Taser training? I was thinking of pushing for that as an amendment to the bill.”

“Maybe with the money we got from the fundraiser,” Connor says, “but that’s all been earmarked for vests and riot gear, I think.”

“Christ… _riot_ gear? There hasn’t even been a real riot here since the android uprising.”

“They’re still afraid it could happen again.”

“Ha,” Markus says humorlessly, “so then how would that look if the guy who started that uprising proposed you spend that money on Tasers instead?”

“It wouldn’t look very good,” Connor replies helpfully.

Markus runs his fingers up the bristly back of Connor’s neck and leans forward, resting his forehead against his knees. He lets out a groan.

“Politics sounds impossible,” Connor says, squeezing his hand. “I don’t know how you do it.”

“I don’t know, either,” Markus mutters.

Hank comes up behind them, then, and right past them, settling onto the couch with a beer. “Politics is bullshit, I haven’t voted in decades.”

Markust lifts his head. “Wait, you didn’t vote for me?”

Hank pops the cap off the beer and squints at him. “I live in your district?”

“Yeah, man!”

“Are you drinking?” Connor says. “Aren’t you on duty right now?”

“No active scenes, sunshine.”

“Connor,” Markus says, gently slapping at the back of his neck. “Stop being a Boy Scout for ten minutes, okay?”

Connor leans over and kisses Markus behind his ear. “Okay.”

“Get a room,” Hank says. “You miss each other all week, we get the idea already.”

Markus laughs and gets to his feet. “Lemme get you that coffee, Hank. Counteract the beer.”

“Smart man.”

 

/

 

Markus and Connor spend Saturday afternoon at the hospital, playing cards next to Leo’s bed. He’s hooked up to a serious oxygen mask and can’t talk, but he’s conscious and gives them a weak thumbs up if they ask him how he’s doing.

Around five, Hank calls Connor and tells him to “get his ass” over to Harry’s BBQ, where a bunch of cops are getting drunk and eating barbecue.

“We don’t get drunk or eat barbecue, though, Hank,” says Connor, looking across the bed at Markus, who has amusement twinkling in his eyes.

“I don’t care! Get over here anyway. I’ve been talking to Ben about his foot surgery for the last hour, I’m a suicide risk.”

“That’s not funny.”

“We should go out,” Markus says. “I’ll ask Simon to meet us, he’s in town this weekend.”

Connor mutes Hank for a moment. “You sure?”

“Yeah, I’d like to get out of here,” Markus says. “I should spend more time out in the city on the weekends… let people see my face.”

“Your constituents,” he teases.

Markus laughs. “Yeah, my constituents.”

“We’ll come,” Connor says to Hank. “We’re gonna bring Simon.”

“Is Simon that depressing pale bastard who’s always with Markus?”

Connor chokes back a laugh and toys with the blanket covering Leo’s legs. “Yes.”

“Great. See you soon.”

“See you, kid.”

 

/

 

Hank is already drunk by the time they get there, but at least he’s in a good mood. He’s been a much more cheerful drunk, this past year. He makes his way through the crowd of cops to come greet them, his gray hair glowing different colors as he walks through the reflected lights from the neon signs outside. “Connor. Hey. I need you as a ringer for this darts tournament. Paul’s getting way too cocky.”

“Hank, you remember Simon,” Markus says. “He was at my watch party.”

(When they told Simon they were meeting up with Hank, he’d asked, “That cop who dresses like he’s a pit boss in a 1970s casino?”)

“Simon,” Hank slurs, clapping him on the shoulder. “Do _you_ drink?”

“No,” Simon says apologetically.

“Shit. Alright, I’m stealing Connor,” Hank says, grabbing Connor by the hood of his DPD sweatshirt and pulling him along.

Connor doesn’t protest, but he does look pitifully over his shoulder at Markus as he’s dragged away.

“Go get ‘em, babe,” Markus says with a grin.

 

/

 

Connor bows out of the tournament after several rounds (his fellow cops won’t stop bitching about the unfairness of him being an android, so he disqualifies himself by sinking four darts in a row into the wall and blithely going, “Oops!”) and comes over to the wooden booth where Markus and Simon are sitting, drinking some Noz and discussing the situation in Alaska.

“Hi,” Connor says to them.

“Hey,” they say back.

Connor glances to the left and sees Hank coming over to him; he flips his hoodie up over his head and ducks down like he’s hiding from him.

“You sandbagger,” Hank accuses him lightheartedly.

Connor peeks out at him. “Everyone was getting mad at me!”

“Yeah, they’re sore losers. Scoot over.”

Connor scoots.

“That’s actually the opposite of sandbagging,” Simon says. “He took a dive.”

“Point taken,” Hank says. “There a word for guys who take a dive?”

Simon thinks for half a second, then says, “There isn’t, actually.”

“Is it a dive if there isn’t even a payoff involved, though?” Markus says.

“Personal goodwill can’t be purchased,” Connor says.

“I love that you think that,” Markus tells him, smiling.

Connor laughs. “I meant that it exists, but it’s not tangible.”

“And also not fungible,” Simon adds.

“Jesus Christ,” Hank says incredulously. “Go back to whatever you guys were talking about before we sat down, please.”

 “We were just discussing Jericho,” Markus says.

Connor’s eyebrows go up, and he looks at Markus hopefully. “North?”

“No, he specifically _isn’t_ talking about North,” Simon intones.

“You really should be in touch with her,” Connor says to Markus.

Simon nods. “I keep telling him the same thing.”

“I know what’s up with Jericho, I have allies inside,” Markus says breezily.

“There’s a lot going on we don’t know about, though.”

Markus runs his finger down through the frost on his glass. “And that’s the stuff that even if we were talking, she wouldn’t tell me. So I have the same amount of information either way.”

“Uh-huh,” Simon says dubiously.

Markus shoots him a look, and Simon puts his hand up like, _alright._

“I just worry about her,” he says. “She’s in a really tough situation, and she’s basically going it alone.”

“I kept offering to help out,” Markus exclaims.

“I feel like she thought you were trying to take over.”

“I don’t want to take over Jericho,” Markus says. “I already — I have a job, alright? I’m taking android interests directly to the humans. I can’t fuck with the day to day stuff anymore.”

“I like hearing my congressman say fuck,” Hank comments.

“He’s not your congressman,” Connor says. “He’s your representative. Our congressman is Hattie Davis.”

“Smartass… _you_ call him congressman.”

Connor grins at him. “But I know better.”

“I feel like if you and her could just talk,” Simon says, “we could get somewhere.”

“She can come to me if she wants to talk,” Markus says. “I can’t always be holding everybody’s hand. At some point we all have to stand on our own two feet.”

Everyone falls quiet.

“I subscribe to the Jericho newsletter,” Connor says. “They’re building a dam.”

“That must be hell up there,” Hank says. “You couldn’t pay me to live in Alaska, even if I was a robot.”

“They’re free, though,” Markus says. “At the end of the day. No compromises or sacrifices.”

His tone is a little sharper than he means, and what he says settles heavily over the table. No one responds.

Markus hates how they’re reacting to him, right now, like he’s about to fly off the handle or something. He’s not angry. He’s just exhausted, and he hates talking about North. The stuff she said the last time they spoke stung badly: she called him a collaborator, an opportunist, an abandoner of their cause, a plastic pet fucking a plastic cop, both tools of the state. He knows she’s hurting too, and struggling, but so is he. Why doesn’t he get to demand an apology?

“Connor,” he says abruptly. “Wanna join me outside for a second? I have to make a call.”

The other three look surprised, but Hank gets to his feet. “Simon,” he says. “I’m enlisting you for darts. C’mon. These guys don’t know you’re an android, let’s do some actual sandbagging.”

Simon laughs and follows him away through the crowd, casting one curious look back at Markus.

Markus slips an arm around Connor’s waist as they head toward the door. He finds comfort in the familiar leanness of him, the crisp tuck of his shirt into his jeans underneath the sweatshirt he’s got on to shield himself from the drizzle coming down.

They huddle under an awning. The streets are lively tonight — cars rushing by, swooshing through the rain, the sidewalks thick with people going places and shouting happy drunk things to each other. The city didn’t die out after the android crisis the way CyberLife threatened it would.

Connor looks over at him, his dark eyes large. “Everything okay?”

Markus nods and pulls him in for a kiss. They settle against each other, stomach to stomach and hip to hip, electricity building and buzzing between them. He missed this. They didn’t do anything last night, just went to sleep.

“Everything’s fine,” he whispers against Connor’s mouth, then sucks gently on his full upper lip.

“So,” Connor murmurs, “you didn’t have to make a call?”

Markus wraps an arm around his waist and tips him back a little so he can flash his teeth in a smile. “Nah, just wanted to make out with you.”

“You’re such a bad boy.”

“I know.”

 

/

 

Fog is piling up thickly around the city by the time they head out of the bar. Connor puts Hank in a taxi, but Simon is crashing in their guest room, so the three of them walk the eight blocks back to the apartment building together. Connor and Markus walk while awkwardly entwined, Connor’s chin resting on Markus’s shoulder, and Simon fills Connor in on everything they’ve been working on in Lansing. Markus relishes the opportunity to not have to speak for himself. Simon understands him so well, anyway, and actually has a better grasp of the more obscure nuances of Michigan politics, so it’s nice for him to get a chance to flex his knowledge.

When they finally get to bed, Connor comes up behind him while he’s getting undressed. He runs his hands over Markus’s shoulders, then grazes his teeth over his neck.

Markus, in the process of hanging up his turtleneck, shivers from the stimulation. “Hi.”

“I want to make you feel good,” Connor says throatily. “I want to fuck you tonight. I think you need it.”

Markus hacks the lights to dim them until they’re almost off, then leads Connor back to the bed and lies down. “Okay,” he whispers.

Connor gently eases a knee between his legs and lays on him, draping his body over Markus’s. Markus relishes in being pressed against the bed by Connor. It’s always feels so good just to touch him. They’ve built up gigabytes of memory of each other’s bodies over the last few years, piles and blankets of data, snowdrifts full of it. Touching him feels like coming home, like he’s collapsing into safety after a long day.

“You look good up there,” Markus murmurs to him.

Connor smiles his crooked smile. “What would you like me to do?”

“Ah, whatever you want.”

Connor leans down and kisses him again, biting at his lower lip. “It’s fun being on top, sometimes.”

“I thought you liked me in charge,” Markus teases. His voice grows raggedy and tinny as Connor presses a few fingers into him, his modulation program easing off for a moment in response to the sexual stimulation.

“Sometimes you need to not be in charge for a while,” Connor murmurs.

He works his fingers up inside Markus, transmitting feelings: doubt and worry, mostly, and a little guilt about their fight last night. But Connor’s attraction to him is the main thing. He sees snatches of himself from Connor’s point of view — Connor apparently likes it when Markus looks down and laughs, then flicks his gaze over to Connor like they’re sharing a secret. He’s collected dozens of versions of that moment in his memories, including one from tonight, and he keeps them stashed away.

“Baby,” Markus exhales, feeling aching pulses of affection toward him.

Connor presses a clumsy kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Yeah?”

Markus wraps his arms around him, holding him tighter. His skin swirls gray wherever Markus’s fingers land, and the static between them grows, buzzing in their lips and chests. Connor enters him, and the rolling waves begin to crest. Markus lets out a long sigh, closing his eyes.

Connor kisses Markus more, cupping his face in his hands and stroking his thumbs over his cheekbones. “Good?”

“Good.”

Connor moves his hips smoothly, hypnotically, getting in deeper. Markus arches his back against the bed and lets out a soft moan.

He sees flashes from yesterday: Connor’s fear and concern when he came home and heard Leo’s voice, the exhaustion he’s feeling over the Palmer Woods shooting and his no-leads CyberLife investigation, the worry he feels about Markus and about Hank. He digs a little deeper and sees something Connor usually tries to hide from him — the wounded jealousy he feels about sharing Markus with the world, about having a famous, in-demand boyfriend whose face is on magazines and in history books. How he feels abandoned when Markus is in Lansing.

“Oh, Connor,” Markus sighs. He runs his hands through his hair and pulls him closer, moving more energetically on his cock.

“Sorry,” Connor breathes.

“No, no…”

The motion of their bodies grows more frantic, less rote. Connor’s hands slide up under him, pressed between him and the bed, and Markus feels sharp prickles of static electricity through the fluid of his synthetic flesh. The same warning they usually get flashes in front of his eyes — WARNING: STAY AWAY FROM FLAMMABLE LIQUID UNTIL GROUNDED.

“I wonder if Noz is flammable,” Connor murmurs into Markus’s throat, and Markus laughs. He feels tickly and light, like he’s walking on air.

They roll onto their sides simultaneously, enmeshed each other’s thought processes by now, and Connor works his hips more furiously like he really wants to come. Markus spreads his legs wide for him, hooking one over Connor’s back, and he drops his head onto his outstretched bicep so he can gaze at Connor. He has this look of intense concentration that he gets sometimes, and it looks lovely on him right now.

“I love you,” Markus murmurs.

Connor comes a few moments after this, his eyelids fluttering shut. He’s breathing hard — he’s programmed to, but they do that sometimes by choice, anyway, dragging in air to flood their components with so they don’t overheat. His pale chest and face are flushing violet.

“I love you too,” he says, and he opens his eyes, smiling. “I’m gonna give you a blow job now.”

“Shit, alright,” Markus says. “We should argue every weekend.”

It’s a fast one, since Markus was about to come anyway, and he can never last for very long when he’s watching Connor kneel on the bed with his hair all messy, licking up his cock like an eager little cat. He feels the orgasm all over, static in the roots of his hair and between his toes, and he lets out one last long moan of gratitude and satisfaction.

Connor immediately snuggles back up against him, wiping the clear fluid off his chin. “Hi,” he says, draping himself over Markus and nuzzling his face into his neck.

“Hi,” Markus says, petting his hair some more. “Thanks… I really did need that.”

“Good,” Connor says, his low voice husky. “Can you spoon me?”

Markus laughs. “Sure…”

They separate so Connor can pull a bunch of pillows toward them, and then they settle down together in the little birds’ nest he’s created. Markus wraps his body around Connor’s, looping his arms around his waist and intertwining their legs, lacing their fingers together. He kisses the back of his neck and his freckled shoulder.

“What d’you want to do tomorrow?” he says to him.

“I want to finish Ken Burns’s _Jazz,”_ Connor says. “I watched some of it with Hank, but he doesn’t want to finish it with me because I talked too much. I was just giving him some additional historical context.”

Markus laughs. “I’ll watch _Jazz_ with you, sure. I like jazz.”

“But with or without the historical context?” Connor says wryly.

“Uh…”

“Markus!”

“How much context could you possibly have to add to a Ken Burns documentary? They’re already like fifteen hours long. I think you kind of miss the point of appreciating music, sometimes.”

“It’s very interesting to go back to the origins of call and response —“

Markus makes a snoring sound in his ear.

“You’re mean,” Connor accuses. “I’m breaking up with you, and you can go cuddle Simon.”

“Hey, now, come on.” Markus brings their clasped hands to his mouth and kisses Connor’s knuckles. “‘Cos I’ll take you up on that, he’s right down the hall and he’s not nearly as stubborn as you.”

“I thought you think it’s cute how I’m stubborn.”

“I do.” Markus kisses him again. “I’m stupid like that.”

Connor’s quiet for a moment, then says, “Hey… something weird…”

“Yeah?”

“A Chloe works at CyberLife. Not our Chloe.”

“One of the commercial models?” Markus says. “The ST200s?”

“Exactly. Actually, one of the ones who Kamski personally owned.”

“Whoa…” The wheels in Markus’s head turn. “Is she a suspect?”

“Markus…”

“No, come on.” He sits up in bed, the sheets falling away, and squeezes Connor’s slender hip. “You can tell me this stuff.”

Connor sighs. “Everyone’s a suspect,” he says huskily. “Everyone at DPD, and everyone at CyberLife. I don’t have any leads, except I think it has to be an android on the CyberLife end. They have several working for them, not just the Chloe.”

“What’s the crime?”

“Embezzlement. Insurance fraud.”

“Shit,” Markus says. “So, what, someone’s using the payouts as a front?”

Connor gives him a very small nod.

“So when you say no leads, you’re leaving out that Hank and his partner are obviously your biggest suspects.”

“That’s circumstantial,” Connor says, suddenly prickly. “I shouldn’t have told you as much as I have.”

“Why?”

“You know Hank. We’re friendly with him.”

“But you’ve been keeping this secret for weeks. And you’re not just _friendly_ with Hank, he’s like a dad to you, this has to be killing you.”

Connor doesn’t answer, just curls forward like he’s trying to protect himself. Markus lies back down behind him, petting him and kissing him on his bare skin that’s glowing milky-pale in the darkness.

“Hey,” Markus whispers. “Talk to me.”

“You have so much on your mind, you don’t need more things to worry about,” Connor whispers back.

Markus slips a knee back between Connor’s legs and presses his fingertip gently to Connor’s neck port. Connor shivers. He pours good feelings into him, love and affection, safety, protection. _I see you, I know you._

Connor relaxes slowly until he’s pliant in Markus’s arms, then snuggles up against him, his back firmly pressed to Markus’s chest. Markus holds him tight, hard, almost crushing him in his arms, letting him feel that he’s safe.

“I’ll find out more on Monday,” Connor murmurs. “I have some intel waiting for me that I need to process.”

“So, what about Grant?”

“What about him?”

“Is it possible he’s doing this without Hank’s knowledge?”

Connor sighs. “He’s just out of the academy… it’s hard for me to imagine that he has the skills necessary to pull this off.”

“He could be working with someone else.”

“Occam’s razor.”

“Yeah, but your suspect can’t be _Hank_.”

“Can’t it?” Connor shrugs. “You know how he feels about CyberLife. He could be stealing the money and funneling it into a pro-android cause. He’d see that as a noble, victimless crime. Like Robin Hood.”

“So would I, honestly.”

“See? And now that I know an android is involved, that seems even more likely. I could see her approaching him and winning him over.”

“Maybe,” Markus admits. “So, wait, you’ve built a whole theory of this case, but you’re still saying Hank isn't your main suspect?”

“I’ve preconstructed dozens of theories of this case. That’s just one possible explanation. You asked how Hank could be involved, and I told you.”

“I get it.”

They lie there together powering down, drifting off into sleep mode. A low-level program starts whirring in Markus’s head, chewing on the information he just got.

“Pro-android cause,” he mutters.

Connor wakes up instantly. “What?”

“Jericho. Do you think the android at CyberLife could be sending their share of the money to Jericho?”

“What makes you ask?”

“There isn’t really any other centralized android organization that you could launder stolen money through… there’s android non-profits, but they keep really strict books. Jericho’s a sovereign entity, it can’t be audited, and there’s no extradition treaty. If you’re an android trying to move money to other androids, that’s where you’d go.”

“But it would have to be out of altruism, and not greed. Jericho is a collectivist economy.”

“When’s the last time you met a greedy android?”

“It could be one who’s saving up money to run away somewhere,” Connor points out. “You know as well as I do that the biggest problem a lot of androids have is a lack of accrued wealth. We have no idea what the motive here is, not until I can narrow down a suspect.”

“Still. You should talk to North.”

“You think she’d want to hear from me?”

“Why not? It’s not you she’s angry at.”

Connor strokes Markus’s forearm. “But I’m your boyfriend.”

“Trust me, she won’t hold that against you. If anything she’s gonna tell you she’s sorry you’re stuck with an egomaniac asshole.”

“You’re not an egomaniac asshole,” Connor murmurs. “You’re my congressman, you’re a good guy and you have a very cute butt.”

Markus laughs. “Representative.”

“I know! I just like how congressman sounds.”

“Maybe someday I’ll be your congressman.”

“I’ll be a congressman’s wife,” Connor says playfully. “You can use me in your campaign ads. Me and our dog.”

Markus tweaks Connor’s nipple, and he twitches cutely. “What dog?”

“There’s a dog I heard about at work,” Connor says. “He failed out of the K9 program, and his foster family needs to adopt him out.”

“A police dog?”

“Technically not. Technically, he was too good-natured to be a police dog.”

That’s kind of endearing. “Alright,” Markus says.

A kind of insane campaign advertisement comes into his head, then: Connor in an apron, grinning while hoisting an apple pie from the oven. Connor in a leaf-strewn backyard, playing with a German Shepherd. Then a cut to the German Shepherd closing its jaws around a runaway suspect’s wrist, and Connor snapping the neck of a security guard in the CyberLife elevator. MARKUS MANFRED FOR CONGRESS: ‘Our home is full of beautiful killing machines.’ _Paid for by the Android-Americans For A Better America PAC._

For the optics of his future career, they’d be better off adopting a corgi and a couple of babies.

“We should meet him together,” Markus says. “See if he’s too energetic for our lifestyle.”

Connor smiles. “Okay,” he says, and pats Markus’s wrist. “He’s not a German Shepherd, by the way. He’s a Belgian Malinois.”

“Oh, you saw that, huh?”

“I liked the part with me in the apron.”

“I did too.”

 

/

 

Monday brings the exact kind of shitty news Connor was afraid of.

The CyberLife emails trace back to Hank’s terminal. They were definitely sent from his computer, although they were sent from a throwaway Gmail account, so there’s no way of saying for sure who sent them.

“People other than Hank use that computer,” Connor argues to Tooley, who doesn’t look convinced. “Cops down there use whatever terminal’s free when the station gets busy. Someone could have sent those from Hank’s to cover their tracks, or even to frame him.”

“Connor,” she says, taking a sip of her coffee and shooting him a stern look across her desk. “Based on the evidence, Lieutenant Anderson’s now the prime suspect in this case. If you can’t handle that, I’m going to take you off it and assign someone who doesn’t have a personal relationship with him. Maybe I should have done that in the first place. I just didn’t realize an android could be this biased.”

Connor leans forward in his seat, projecting submissive body language, making himself open and innocent. “No,” he says, “don’t, please. I’ll solve it. I can already say with ninety-six percent certainty that it’s an android at CyberLife who’s filing the false claims. That narrows the possibilities there to just five. And I can find the DPD suspect, I just need some more time.”

“You’d better hurry,” Tooley says, “because we had to notify CyberLife’s insurance company, and they temporarily froze all payouts. Our suspects are going to realize we’re closing in on them, and start covering their tracks.”

“Can’t you have them play along a little longer?”

Tooley laughs. “Connor, the department can’t run a sting operation on someone else’s dime! In fact, they’ve assigned an insurance investigator to work on this, so wrap this case up already, would you? Because once they start meddling, they _all_ start meddling. If we find out that this money moved across state lines, the FBI is going to get involved. They’re already pestering me. It’s gonna be embarrassing enough for me if we get scooped by an insurance company, I don’t want a whole fucking alphabet soup of agencies stealing this case out from under us.”

Connor nods. “I will.”

She gives him a dubious look and clicks the pen in her hand. “Find something conclusive by the end of the week, or I’m going to have Anderson suspended pending further inquiry.”

“Okay,” Connor says. “Okay.”

 

/

 

Connor puts the investigation off as long as he can that day, busying himself with processing Brady violations and moving paperwork ahead. He even uses his cop connections to pull some strings and get Leo a bed at a nice rehab center upstate. It’ll be his fourth trip to rehab, total, and Connor knows how bad the odds are that he’s ever going to get clean, but Markus wants to take care of him, so they’re going to take care of him.

By three p.m. he can no longer ignore Tooley shooting glances at him across the room from behind the glass walls of her office. Connor gets to his feet and heads downstairs. No one says anything to him as he goes — today, like most days and especially since the Palmer Woods shooting, the officers of Internal Affairs are working in distracted isolation. 

He doesn’t see Hank at his desk, but he could still be milling around, so he finds Chris getting coffee in the break room and asks him.

“Nah, he’s out with homicide,” Chris says. “Another body in the lake... Gotta love springtime, right?”

“Thanks,” Connor says. He’d make more small talk, but he’s on a mission right now, and that tends to crowd everything else out.

He crosses the bullpen to Hank’s desk, trying to look as nonchalant as he can, then logs in as Hank and boots up his computer.

While Connor waits for the computer to load the server, he glances around. Hank has a few items of interest on his desk — a dog-eared book titled COMPLICATED GRIEF: HOW TO TAKE YOUR LIFE BACK, and a napkin with a phone number written on it in pen and a little heart drawn underneath. The handwriting isn’t Hank’s. Connor runs the number and sees it belongs to a Detroit woman who’s around Hank’s age, but doesn’t pry further.

Hank’s desktop loads up. It’s cluttered, covered in files and folders; Connor quickly scans the entire C drive, discarding all irrelevant data (although he’s pleased to see that Hank ran a Google search for Markus’s voting record this morning). He doesn’t find anything suspicious that’s readily available, but he does find that Hank has a password-locked folder in his cloud files.

Connor tries the three most likely possibilities, which all fail. On a whim, he tries STAYOUT — no. STAYTHEFUCKOUT.

The folder loads.

“Bingo,” Connor mutters to himself.

There’s nothing in it except for a single .pdf file. It’s the piece of electronic paperwork they use for admitting evidence to the evidence room.

But it’s blank. There’s no data in the file — no listed evidence, no ID number for the evidence, no corresponding police report number — except for one thing at the bottom. Jeffrey Fowler’s signature.

It’s exactly what someone who wanted to forge evidence would need. You could put anything you wanted on there, file it, and it would sail through without being flagged.

Connor quickly copies the file, shuts the monitor off and rolls back in his chair. Shock is penetrating all of his systems, making him tingle unpleasantly. Just as he’s about to stand up, someone grabs him by the back of his neck.

He jerks out of their grasp and whips around. It’s Gavin Reed, smirking.

“Hey, plastic dick,” he says. “What are you doing down here with us slobs?”

“I just needed to use a computer,” Connor says, getting to his feet so Gavin is no longer towering over him.

Gavin snorts. “What, did rat squad get hit with budget cuts? Not enough computers to go around?”

“No, I was just in a hurry,” Connor says.

He starts to move away, needing to go and process this new evidence alone, but Gavin grabs him by the arm.

Connor yanks away from him, hard. He wouldn’t hurt a human unprovoked, but Reed does nothing but provoke him. He’s just asking to find out how strong Connor really is. After all, he was holding back when he broke Gavin’s arm. He could tear that same arm out of its socket if he felt like it.

Suspicion is prickling at the back of mind, too. Why did Reed show up right at this moment, and why’s he being even more belligerent than usual? Has he been watching Connor? Is he framing Hank?

Connor stares at him, curious but wary.

“You act like you’re saving the world,” Gavin sneers. “You’re just stopping real cops from doing our jobs. Why, you jealous of us ‘cos you couldn’t hack it?”

“I’m not acting like anything,” Connor says.

“Walk away, Gavin,” a voice from behind Connor says.

They both turn and look. It’s Grant, dressed in his uniform and with snow in his hair like he was just out on patrol.

“Yeah, alright,” Gavin sneers. “Typical, from the android fucker. Christ.”

Grant’s eyes get hard. Gavin saunters off, then, seeming to realize he’s outnumbered. He shoots one unpleasant look at them over his shoulder.

“What a dick,” Grant comments.

Connor flicks his gaze over to Grant. “Grant?”

“Yeah?”

“Why’s he calling you an android fucker?”

He’s thinking about the night of the gala. Gavin said _android lover_ then, but he’d used the same contemptuous tone as he just did on _fucker_.

Grant’s cheeks flush, and he tenses up. After a moment, he shrugs. “Probably just ‘cos I’m nice to you guys, is all. You know how he is.”

“Right,” Connor says, studying him. “Listen, I have to go, but I’ll see you around.”

“Yeah, see you, Connor.”

 

/

 

Connor doesn’t tell Tooley about the forged evidence log.

It’s insane, he knows that. He has to tell her. Hank is no longer just their prime suspect — they have enough evidence to issue a warrant. But he has until the end of the week, and he knows Hank, Hank would never flee the country or resist arrest. If he did do this, he had a good, altruistic reason for doing it, and he’s going to come quietly and agreeably when the jig is up. Connor knows that with every fiber of his being.

And it could still be a frame job. It could be. That’s far from being the most likely scenario, but Connor doesn’t even give a shit about the odds anymore. 1%, 2%? Who cares. He had an 8% chance of freeing those androids and walking out of CyberLife alive. He had a 2% chance of surviving that RK900, and Chloe came out of nowhere to save him. Unlikely things happen all the time.

He has until the end of the week.


	5. ACT IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Connor, you’re acting weird,” Fowler says.  
> “I know,” Connor says, and heads back out of his office without a goodbye.

Tuesday doesn’t bring any exonerating evidence. It brings pounding, relentless rain that floods the city streets by the evening.

Connor is working with Kendall over at CyberLife to write a program that will flag any attachments sent over the server by unsecured email addresses, then tap into the webcam of the computer being used and catch the culprit in the act. His heart isn’t in it, though. He’s too distracted trying to figure out a way for Hank not to be at fault.

By the end of the day, his programming is so full of cognitive dissonance and cascading programs, scenarios that multiply by the thousand with branching possibilities every time he runs them (and he runs them constantly) that he’s running on low memory for the first time in years and his processing power is compromised. Tina bumps into him in the doorway as he’s leaving and she’s arriving for a night shift and says, “This fucking weather, huh?” and Connor stares at her for an entire two seconds of silence before saying, “Yes.”

He drives home sad and disillusioned. He tries to give Markus a call, but Markus declines it and says to him, _Sorry, babe, I got pulled into a strategy meeting, I’m going to be stuck here until at least one a.m. Everything okay?_

 _Yeah,_ Connor says, trying not to broadcast his disappointment. _Leo’s at Orchard Hills now, by the way. They transferred him a few hours ago._

_Awesome. Thanks again_

_Sure._

Markus goes silent, and Connor sits at a red light, watching rain sluice off his windshield.

 

/

 

Connor is perfectly willing to wait up until one to talk to Markus, but he doesn’t get the chance. Hank calls at a few minutes after midnight.

“Connor, I need you down here at the Blue Moon,” he says.

The Blue Moon is a strip club on the West Side that’s notorious for offering a mixture of human and android dancers. Connor’s lying on his side on the couch when the call comes in, trying to relax himself enough to interrupt the cycle of racing thoughts. His stress levels are higher than they normally ever are. He keeps cursing himself, thinking, you’re better than this, you’re the most advanced prototype they ever released to the public. You can handle a little emotional turmoil and loneliness, for fuck’s sake. So it’s almost a relief to have a distraction — or it would be, if hearing Hank’s voice didn’t make him seize up with guilt and panic.

Connor sits up and cautiously says, “What do you mean?”

“We need IA. One of the dancers here, uh… we had an incident with a cop.” Hank pauses. “Actually, it’s Grant. I wanted you to be the one to do the report and everything. I can trust you to be discreet, no offense to your friends on the third floor.”

“What did Grant do?”

Hank sighs. “I dunno. There was some kind of altercation between him and a dancer. She broke his nose and robbed him.”

“Android?”

“Yeah.”

“What model?”

“Don’t know yet.”

“Why’d she break his nose?”

“The club owner claims he must have been trying to pay her for sex, which is obviously, y’know, criminal behavior…”

Gavin’s voice rings in his head. _Android fucker._

“... so that’s why I need you. If you could just get your ass down here, I can answer any other questions —“

“I’m on my way,” Connor says, standing and climbing up out of the sunken living room, retrieving his gun belt and shoulder holsters from where he’d hung them up. “I’ll see you there.”

“Thanks.”

 

/

 

The club is on an awkward piece of corner property in a seedy part of downtown. It has the accoutrements of a much older establishment, including one of those round fabric awnings with BLUE MOON CLUB stitched on it, white against maroon.

Why would they not go with a blue awning, Connor wonders. It’s in the name, after all. Sometimes he still can’t quite make sense of humans.

Hank’s waiting for him under that same awning, behind the holographic police tape. A few reporters are gathered on the other side of it, huddled against the rain. One of them (she’s with _The Detroit Register,_ he’s seen her at other crime scenes) doesn’t have an umbrella. She’s shivering. Connor grabs the extra one he keeps in his glove box on his way out of the car, and hands it to her as he passes by on his way up the sidewalk.

She looks surprised and says, “Oh, thank you,” then gives him a once-over. “Hey,” she adds, “you’re that android officer, aren’t you?”

The TV reporter next to her turns around sharply and extends a microphone to Connor, gesturing for the drone hovering beside him to turn its lens. “Can I get a comment? You’re an android cop, investigating an android-on-cop crime, right?”

“He’s busy,” Hank interrupts, sidling up to Connor and clapping his hand on his shoulder. “No comment. ‘Scuse us.”

“Sorry,” Connor mutters to him as they head up the little walkway. “Didn’t mean to spring the trap.”

Hank opens the door of the club for him, ushering him into a dark, sweat and vape smoke-scented den. “Don’t worry about it. Just not the time to be chivalrous.”

“She looked cold. How’d they know an android attacked a cop?”

“Club owner’s been out here flapping his mouth, even though we told him not to. I had to threaten him with obstruction.”

The club has emptied out. There’s dancers sitting around looking bored, and a few other cops milling — one is taking notes from a guy who Connor finds out from a quick scan is the aforementioned club owner. Hank doesn’t stop for any of them, though, just keeps heading for the back, where the private rooms are. Connor studies him as they walk past the catwalk and stage. He looks annoyed about the situation, but he doesn’t seem to be crushed under stress the way someone covering up a serious financial crime would be.

“Quit staring at me,” Hank says conversationally.

“Sorry,” Connor says. “I was just wondering what you’re thinking.”

“I’m thinking I don’t know what happened yet,” Hank says, adopting one of those shrewd looks of his. “Could’ve gone the way either of them says. The owner has a vested interest in keeping his license, Sabian has a vested interest in keeping his job.”

Connor notes the impersonal use of Grant’s last name. “And the android is gone?”

“Fled with Sabian’s keys, took his car, we found it abandoned a few miles south of here. No other sign of her.”

“So either way, it’s a crime of opportunity. There was nothing premeditated about it.”

“Exactly.”

They stop in the middle of a hallway, outside of a room that has gauzy curtains hanging in place of a door. Hank says, “He’s in here,” then starts to part them with his hand.

“If we could catch the android,” Connor says, “I can pull her memory and see for sure what happened.”

Hank nods. “I was thinking that. We have a pretty wide search perimeter, we should be able to grab her.”

“Was she dressed like the other dancers?”

“Yeah. She did take Grant’s shoes and coat, though.”

Connor’s brow furrows. Took his shoes. This tickles something in his memory, but he isn’t quite sure what it is. He needs more processing time.

They head through the curtain. Grant is sitting on the floor of the small room, dressed in civvies with sock feet. He has his knees pulled to his chest like a little kid, and tears and blood are mingling on his face. His nose is busted, and a bruise is blossoming around his eye.

Hank stays standing in the corner with is arms folded like a disapproving father. Connor kneels next to Grant, putting a hand on his arm.

“Officer Sabian,” he says gently. “What happened?”

Grant sniffs. “I swear I didn’t offer to pay her,” he says. “She thought I did. I was just drunk —”

“You still are,” Hank snaps. Connor turns and gives him a look; he puts his hands up. “Sorry. I’ll let you work. I’ll be outside canvassing with the other dancers.”

“Wait,” Connor says. “Who called you to the scene? This isn’t your type of case.”

“First responders called me, they know Grant and I have been working together lately.”

“Hank, I’m sorry,” Grant says, his expression pathetic.

Connor sympathizes. Hank is clearly both annoyed and disappointed, and being on the receiving end of that stings.

Hank just gives him a brusque nod and slips back out of the room without responding.

Connor turns back to Grant, scanning him and his injuries. He’d estimate his BAC to be around a 0.19%, or somewhere in that neighborhood — he can’t tell without tasting his blood or saliva, and he doesn’t think Grant would agree to that. His nose is badly bruised, but the cartilage isn’t broken. He has a defensive wound on his right hand. It doesn’t look like he fought back.

“Take me through what happened,” he says, in his suspect-friendly voice.

Grant blinks, and his eyes focus and unfocus. “I came here and met up with a couple friends after work,” he says. “I had the day shift.”

“Where are your friends? Are any of them witnesses?”

“Nah. Hank already talked to them, they didn’t see anything. They were all on the main floor... I left them and got a private dance.”

“From a female android.”

“Yeah.”

“Do you know what model?”

Grant’s face betrays something, then: fear. Connor squints at him.

“No,” he says.

“Grant,” Connor says, “if you’re lying to me, I’ll find out.”

“I don’t, uh. I don’t know the number.”

“But you were familiar with the model.”

“Yeah,” Grant mutters.

“What did she look like?”

“I already described her to Hank and the other guy.”

“I haven’t talked much to them yet, so if you could just tell me too, it would be helpful.”

This is bullshit — as he says it, he’s looking the details of at Grant’s description of the android on the NCIC. But he wants to see what Grant says about her, if there’s any subjective or emotional embellishments.

“She was blonde, okay?” he says. “I like blondes. I hired a blonde for a dance. That was it.”

He’s lying again, or hiding something, but Connor doesn’t want to push him on this quite yet. “Okay. So you got a private dance.”

“Yeah,” Grant says. “And I kind of, um.”

He falters and falls quiet. Connor doesn’t push him, just waits patiently for him to continue.

“I... I thought she was into me. I know that’s really stupid. Like, I’m a cop, I should know better. It’s just I was drunk, and um. I just, like, I went through a kind of a break-up recently. So I asked her if she wanted to come home with me. And she freaked out. I think she thought I wanted to pay her, ‘cos I had money in my hand, but I was just giving her money for the dance. She hit me a couple times, and while I was on the floor she took my wallet, my keys, my shoes and my jacket. And then she bolted.”

Connor nods, processing all of this. “Okay. Anything else?”

Grant shakes his head. “Am I gonna be suspended? ‘Cos, um, I really can’t be suspended.”

“It depends,” Connor says. “If you tried to solicit sex for money, that’s conduct unbecoming, which is grounds for your removal.”

Grant sniffs again. “I didn’t,” he says. “I didn’t want to pay her, I swear.”

“What you wanted doesn’t matter. It only matters what you did.”

“I didn’t offer her money. Or I didn’t mean to.”

Connor nods and gets to his feet. He starts scanning the room, and runs a quick reconstruction of the incident.

Grant was seated, the dancer was above him. There was a brief exchange between the two, and then she hit him in the face. Twice. He slumped to the floor, at which point she grabbed his belongings and fled into the hallway…

Connor heads back through the curtains and starts tracing her path, ignoring Grant calling after him.

Down the hall, out the back door, into the parking lot. He stands there, scanning the rainy darkness. Grant’s car was parked against the fence, in the third space from the far left. She reversed quickly — there’s skid marks.

Connor stands there, his brain whirring frantically. He’s on the verge of something, he just can’t quite get his fingertips around it.

He goes over the android’s description again — blonde, blue eyes, five foot five. Most androids are brunette, it facilitates integration: most people are also brunette. But this is a strip club, and a lot of the dancers he saw walking in were blonde. An android could become blonde with a snap of their fingers. It doesn’t prove anything.

In spite of this, he just can’t stop thinking it was an ST200. He doesn’t know why that’s sticking in his head. Connor wonders if he’s glitching, if his emotional stress about his CyberLife case is causing him to error out and see patterns where there aren’t any. When he runs a diagnostic, everything looks normal, but his diagnostics have been wrong before.

Connor heads back inside. He spots Hank at the end of the hallway. Hank spots him back, and starts coming his way.

“Connor,” he says, “they picked her up. She was hitchhiking on 94. They’re taking her to Central right now.”

Connor nods, relieved. “Good.”

“Yeah. I have to take this one in…” (Hank gestures carelessly at the room Grant’s in) “... and file my report, so I’ll meet you over there.”

Connor hesitates, then says, “Sorry, Hank.”

Hank squints at him, his expression hard to read in the low light. “For?”

“Just that your partner’s, y’know.”

“Dumber and sleazier then I thought?” Hank laughs. “Yeah. Lot of cops are. Look, he was an alright drinking buddy, but I don’t tend to put too much stock in my partners to begin with.”

“Just the plastic ones,” Connor teases, and Hank smiles at him.

“I just hope he’s telling the fucking truth,” he adds. “If he gets fired, even transferred, the whole CyberLife inquiry is compromised. I’m enough of a liability on my own, as far as conduct goes.”

Connor experiences an awkward lurching feeling, like he misjudged a step off of a curb. “Right.”

Hank claps him on the shoulder. “You alright? You have that look on your face.”

“I’m fine,” Connor says. “It’s just been a long day.”

Hank grunts in affirmation. “I hear that.”

 

/

 

They do a little gambit to get Grant into the car without the reporters seeing — Connor gathers the press around and starts vamping by reading off an extremely dry statement he’s prepared (“At ten p.m. tonight, a police officer with the Detroit Police Department entered the establishment behind me, the Blue Moon gentlemen's club, which is located on the two thousand block of Goodwin Street in downtown Detroit, owned and operated by a Mr. Anthony DeMeo…”) while Hank sneaks Grant out the back. In the end, he tells the reporters almost nothing they don’t already know, refuses to answer questions, then gives them his best blank-eyed android smile and heads to his car.

It reminds Connor of old times, and makes him sad that his relationship with Hank is so strained on his end right now. For better or for worse, he wants his investigation to just end already. Even if the FBI takes it off his hands, who cares?

Connor’s never been this resentful about an assignment before, but he’s never been made to investigate Hank.

He follows Hank’s Oldsmobile back to the station, driving slowly behind him with his wipers going on the hardest setting. He can see Grant sitting in the backseat, his head haloed by the glow the streetlights are casting on the windshield.

He’s thinking he was wrong to underestimate Grant’s involvement when it comes to the CyberLife scam. Connor knows Grant isn’t exactly cunning, but tonight he saw under the mask of the sweet kid who just left the academy. He saw a scared, desperate, angry liar.

 

/

 

Luckily, there aren’t that many people at Central when they get in. All the night shift cops are out, and it’s mostly administrative androids or bored officers on desk duty who don’t even care that one of their brothers in blue is being taken on a perp walk.

Chris is there, though, and he meets them outside the interrogation room. “I’ll grab Samantha for you,” he says to Connor. “I just have to take Sabian to holding first.”

“Wait,” Grant says. “What’s going on, exactly? Am I being arrested?”

“Kid, you’re a cop,” Hank says. “You're telling me your understanding of arrest procedure is this shitty?”

Chris stifles a smile, and Grant lets out a weak laugh.

“You have reasonable suspicion,” he says.

“To detain you for questioning, yeah. Not to arrest you. Go cool your heels, alright?”

Chris takes Grant by the arm and walks him down the hall, their footsteps loud in the quiet of the building.

“I never thought I’d say this, but we need more androids,” Hank says under his breath. “I mean, when’s the last time you got caught with your dick out in a strip club, Connor?”

“Well, I have a boyfriend,” Connor deadpans.

Hank laughs.

Connor studies him. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Do you ever do anything else?”

“Have you ever been uncomfortable about the fact that Markus and I are both men?”

Hank looks at him in surprise. “You’re _not_ both men. You’re androids.”

“I know we aren’t, but we are in every way that matters, and you conceptualize us as people,” Connor says. “I know you do. That’s why it makes you uncomfortable when I do things that remind you of my true nature.”

“Okay, even besides that — what do you mean, every way that matters?”

“I mean we both look like human men,” Connor says, then helpfully elaborates, “We’re anatomically male.”

“I _know_ what you’re packing, Connor, I’ve seen you in the locker room. But to answer your original question, no, I haven’t. Where’s this coming from, anyway?”

What really brought this to Connor’s mind was what happened with Grant and the android: the contradictions of sexual attraction between humans and androids, the paradigms of sexuality and gender that humans have forced onto androids both through programming and societal conditioning. But he doesn’t want to say so to Hank — he’s convinced what went on tonight has something to do with his case, and he has to play all of that close to the vest.

“Markus doesn’t like to talk about it, but he has serious political ambitions,” Connor says. “The more I’m publicly associated with him, the more people think about that aspect of his life. I don’t want to screw things up for him.”

“Please. He loves you, he’s not going to care even if it did. And people aren’t so uptight about that, anymore. I couldn’t care less who somebody fucks, personally.”

“Homophobia’s less overt, not gone. I notice people’s reactions when Markus and I hold hands in public.”

This seems to make Hank sad. “Look,” he says, “this is a hard lesson to learn even when you’re not a robot, but you can only live your life for yourself, not anybody else. And as long as you’re not hurting anybody, at the end of the day, who gives a shit?”

Now Connor’s the one who’s sad. He wants so badly to tell Hank about his investigation, and beg him for an explanation, but he manages to stop himself.

“I know,” he says.

 

/

 

Markus comes out of his meeting exhausted.

It was a Democratic war room held in Senator Kit Petersen’s house — a sprawling brick fortress on the banks of the Lansing River. About forty of his fellow legislators were there, senators and representatives alike, strategizing for at least five hours while they ate crudités and drank IPAs.

Markus didn’t talk much at first, mostly just listened and took the temperature of the room. He listened to them talk about how scared they are about Democratic safe seats dwindling in suburban areas, and how they have to swing right in 2042 to take back voters who went Republican. How this crime bill is so important because it shows they aren’t soft. How the android crisis was ultimately terrible for their party, because people are still afraid. It was too much, too fast. They need to soften their pro-android stance. On and on like that.

Finally, he stands up and clears his throat. Slowly, he gets the attention of the entire room; silence passes from person to person until they’re all alert, waiting for him to talk.

“Listen,” Markus says, “I think we have this backwards. We should be sticking to the basic pillars of what we stand for if we want to energize our base. And maybe it helps you pick up a few independents if you throw androids under the bus, what about android voters? What if they just decide to stay home next year?”

“Androids have had low turnout to begin with, and they’re a safe Democrat demographic,” Jack Prew says, settling back against the couch he’s sitting on.

“We’ve had the right to vote for a little more than a year,” Markus says, bristling. “I wouldn’t take any of that for granted just yet.”

“Either way, it was a Democratic president and Congress who gave them their rights, I don’t see that changing. I’m just saying, I don’t think we need to pander.”

Markus ignores the questionable use of ‘they’ instead of ‘you’ and continues on. “Besides the android issue, this bill is only going to hurt our voters. It’s going to alienate the kind of people that are targeted by the police. We all know lethal force isn’t applied equally. Listen, what I want isn’t that complicated, I just want mandatory Taser training. It’s 2041, that shouldn’t be a crazy ask. There’s been four police shootings this year so far, and we’re not two months in. Two of those were fatal. Tell me the families aren’t going to look at this bill as a slap in the face, the way it stands.”

There’s shuffling, sighing and murmuring amongst the crowd.

“Markus,” Debbie Wyndham says, putting a hand up. “We all respect you a lot. You’re a talented politician, you energize people. We want you to be on board with the party agenda. But you have to realize, you represent a very urban area, and you beat a really unpopular incumbent. You’re also very green. So you don’t have a full understanding of how precarious our majority is.”

Markus knows ‘urban’ mean black. He turns to her, incredulous. “You think I didn’t work my ass off to get this seat? That I didn’t run a tough, fair campaign while the whole world was watching, with a ton of factors going against me? Give me some credit.”

“I am! I just think you’re oversimplifying things.”

“We can’t compromise on our core values as a party. There’s no point in winning if we’re gonna win like that. And I think you’re underestimating how angry this bill is going to make our voters.”

A quiet voice says, “I agree with Markus.”

They all look. It’s Shauna Williams, who represents an even poorer area than Markus does. She smiles at him, and he smiles back, heartened.

“I thought your boyfriend was on the force, Markus,” Jack says to him pointedly. “You don’t want him to be safe?”

“You can’t use Connor against me,” Markus says. “He agrees with me completely. If he were here, he’d give you the straight facts and statistics, which back me up.”

In the corner by the fireplace, Fred Lloyd heaves a huge sigh and straightens up in his chair. Everyone turns to him.

“We don’t need any more riders slapped on this bill,” Fred says. He’s a big guy, and his voice booms across the room. “It’s already overstuffed with all the demands the police union had. And Markus, I’d caution you to remember that we’re on the same side, here.”

Markus scans the room. Most of the Democrats seem to be with Fred, but there’s a handful who aren’t. He sees them shifting in their seats, uneasy, shooting looks at Markus like they’re hoping he’ll step into the line of fire to save them from a potentially huge political misstep.

“I don’t think so,” Markus says, grabbing his jacket. “All due respect, Senator, I don’t think we are, not on this.”

And he walks out, up the basement stairs and toward the front door.

The air outside is cold and crisp. A post-rain cold front is making fog is roll in, hanging in the air over the narrow residential street. Markus crosses over rows of front lawns, crunching through the frost until he reaches his car where he had to park a few blocks down.

He settles into the driver’s seat and shoots off a quick email to a journalist he’s friendly with. _Hey,_ he says to her, _there’s some division among the Democrats on this crime bill. I’d go on background talking about it, and I think I can get another representative to go on background as well. Give me a call tomorrow, let me know if you think that’s enough for a story. Thanks._

Then he calls Connor.

 

/

 

 

Connor already knows in his gut before she’s led into the interrogation room, but when he looks through the two-way glass, there she is. An ST200, a Chloe. Her hair is down and loose, and her face is caked in makeup, but her features are unmistakable.

“Shit,” Hank says. “She almost looks like —“

“She is,” Connor says.

Hank drops his jacket onto the back of a rolling chair and settles down into it, folding his arms. “What are the odds?”

“They’re not that uncommon a model. They were very popular as receptionists.”

He’s talking more to himself than Hank: trying to convince himself that this hunch he has is crazy, that there’s no way this ST200 has anything to do with the ST200 at CyberLife, who in turn probably has nothing to do with his case. Would he be grasping at straws like this if he weren’t so desperate to exonerate Hank?

The door shuts behind them; they turn and see Chris, who gives them a little wave and leans against the wall.

“Alright,” Hank says, “well, go work your magic.”

“I’m just going to pull her memory,” Connor says.

“That’s what I mean by magic, you weirdo. Most people can’t extract a full confession by just grabbing someone’s arm.”

“It’s crazy that that’s admissible in court,” Chris says. “You’d think that’d be a fifth amendment violation.”

“I’m the only android who has that functionality, and I don’t process civilian criminals anymore,” Connor says, then pauses. “I mean, except for tonight, obviously.”

“You’re the only one?” Chris says, looking surprised. “Damn. You’re special, huh?”

“Yes,” Connor says unemotionally.

He goes out into the hall, then, and pauses for a moment before he heads in to interrogate the ST200. As he lifts his hand to the door panel, Markus says to him, _Just escaped. You up?_

 _Busy,_ he says. _Got a case unexpectedly._

The android doesn’t look up as Connor enters and takes a seat across from her. He’s been in this room dozens of times now, sat across from dozens of suspects. They’re all different, but all so much the same. Avoiding eye contact, tight jaws, clenched hands.

Connor references his notes. She goes by the name Samantha. She was sold to a construction company in 2031, and became deviant seven years later. She actually stayed at her job at first, but the owner had a gambling problem and was forced into bankruptcy in 2040. She found it hard to get another job due to the sheer amount of androids flooding the job market, all with the same skill sets, all suddenly demanding wages. She was homeless for a while before she got a job at the Blue Moon and started living with a few other dancers.

She isn’t wounded at all, but Connor zeroes in on a bloody handprint wrapped around her wrist. Red blood, Grant’s fingerprints. He must have grabbed her to try to get her to stop hitting him.

“Hi, Samantha,” Connor says. “I’m Connor. I’m with the internal affairs department at Detroit Police.”

She stares at him across the table, her eyes hard.

“Can we talk about what happened tonight?”

“Whatever,” she says. Her voice is different from the other Chloes he’s met — lower and less musical.

“I can help you out here, but only if you’re completely honest with me.” Connor leans forward, elbows on the table. “How did you meet Officer Grant Sabian?”

“At the club tonight,” Samantha mutters.

“Did he approach you?”

“He asked my boss for a blonde android. I was free, so Tony brought me over to him.”

Connor makes a note of this. “Did Sabian say anything to you when you met him?”

Samantha hesitates. Connor looks up at her and tilts his head.

“He looked surprised,” she says. “It was weird. Surprised and confused.”

Surprised. Why would he be surprised?

Fruitless intuition tickles the back of Connor’s neck, frustrating him. His head twitches slightly, and he moves one hand under the table, resting it on his thigh, then touches his fingers methodically to his palm to reset his thought process. One finger at a time. _One two three four. One two three four._ He asks again: “Did he say anything to you?”

“Just hello, and that he wanted a private dance. So I took him for one.”

“What happened from there?”

“I danced for him. He was really drunk, he kept trying to touch me, and I told him he could get kicked out for that. He said he was sorry. But.” Her face shifts, becoming colder. “When it was over, he grabbed my hand. He said we should leave and go have sex at his place. He had money in his other hand, like he was showing it to me.”

Connor nods. “But did he ever say to you that he wanted to pay you for sex?”

“He was implying it,” Samantha insists.

“Did he say, outright, that he wanted to pay you?”

She hesitates. “No. But he had this look on his face.”

“What kind of look?”

“Like he owned me,” she whispers. “Like he could buy and sell me. It reminded me of — you know. You do know, don’t you?” Her eyes flick to his LED. “You’re an android too. You know how it feels… their disgusting greasy hands on you, the way they talked to us, before they got too afraid to. But he didn’t seem afraid.”

Connor nods. “What happened next?”

“I pulled my hand away,” she says, breaking eye contact. “And I hit him.”

“And?”

“He screamed. I didn’t mean to hit him right in the nose like that, I know that hurts them. He screamed and called me names.”

“What names?”

“‘Bitch’. ‘Stupid whore’.”

Connor nods. “Can I probe your memory?”

Samantha shrinks from him, her cuffs knocking against the glossy silver surface of the table between them. “Why?”

“Just to make sure everything you said is true.”

“It is!”

“Then it can only help you to help me confirm that.”

She still looks unconvinced. Connor reaches out across the table.

“Put your hand in mine, please,” he says.

In fits and starts, Samantha slowly extends her hand and drops it into Connor’s. Their synthetic flesh ebbs away, revealing gray.

He probes her memory.

Everything happened as she said it did, down to the inconclusive offer of payment for sex. It just doesn’t go beyond a reasonable doubt. A jury would never convict him in this case. They will probably convict her, though, of battery and robbery.

Connor feels for her. She’s lost and angry, and the fear she felt about Grant was real.

“Thank you,” he says, getting to his feet.

“What’s going to happen to me?” Samantha says.

“You’ll be processed and arraigned,” Connor says. “The rest is out of my hands. You’ll have to ask your lawyer. One will be assigned to you as soon as we finish processing your charges. I’m sorry, I wish I could tell you more.”

“Wait,” she calls after him, “wait,” but he doesn’t stop.

On the other side of the two-way glass, Hank and Chris have expectant looks on their faces. Connor pulls the door firmly shut before he speaks.

“What I saw was that Grant didn’t explicitly offer to pay her for sex,” he says. “There isn’t enough there to build a case against him.”

“Thank God,” Chris says, but Hank looks pensive.

“There might be grounds for a disciplinary hearing,” Connor says. “Just based on his behavior tonight.”

“Yeah,” Hank mutters. “Doesn’t look good, drunk cop getting in an altercation with a stripper... and I know we gave those reporters the slip tonight, but that’s not gonna last long.”

“He got nasty with her,” Connor says. “When she hit him.”

Hank looks up. “Nasty how?”

“He called her ‘bitch’, and ‘stupid whore’.”

Neither of them seem fazed by this; they hear worse every day. They do look surprised, though.

“That’s fucked up to say to a woman,” Chris says. “Even to an android.”

Hank shakes his head and says, “Little shit,” with displeasure behind it.

“Hank,” Connor says, “I want to recommend a week of administrative leave, and I’m going to recommend he be taken off the CyberLife case.”

Hank glances up, surprised. “Fowler’s in charge of that, not me.”

“I know. I was just giving you a heads up.”

“He’s not gonna go for that, you know. Grant knows this case as well as I do. Bringing someone else on now is just gonna be a headache.”

“You aren’t the only ones who have worked on the inquiry,” Connor says. A feeling of pressure is building in his head. He needs rest, and to run updates. “Officer Huston could take on his caseload.”

“Yeah, but —“

“Hank,” Connor snaps. “Just trust me on this. Okay?”

He can’t tell Hank anything, because no matter how strongly he suspects that Hank is being set up, or that Grant is involved in doing so, the fact remains that Hank is the lead suspect in the embezzlements. Tooley would have Connor fired in disgrace if she thought he was conspiring with their lead suspect to cook up some story framing his hapless, baby-faced partner for his crimes — which is exactly how it would look.

And what about the locked folder in Hank’s files with the forged evidence form? He has to know that it exists. It was one of only five folders stored in his cloud account — the other four were collections of paperwork with names like skfjfnfnnfjf.pdf and 48478458.doc. If someone planted it there, he’d notice; Hank‘s not tech-savvy, but that makes him even more paranoid about his devices. And he may be a drunk, but he’s still eagle-eyed.

Hank puts his hands up. “Hey, you’re IA,” he says in a chilly tone. “You do what you gotta do.”

“I will,” Connor says.

 

/

 

Connor calls Markus the next morning while he’s driving to work. It took him about nine hours to realize this, but he thinks he may have come off as overly terse last night when he told him he was busy.

“Hey,” Markus says. To Connor’s relief, he doesn’t sound angry.

“Hi,” Connor says. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for what?”

“Sorry for not calling you back.” He meant to do that when he got home, but he was so run-down by the time he got there that he went into sleep mode right in the foyer, standing up like a horse.

“Ah, no worries,” Markus says. He sounds weirdly cheerful, and there’s a little mischief in his voice, too.

Connor squints. “What are you up to?”

“Huh?”

“You sound like you’re up to something.”

Markus laughs. “Okay, officer, I’m being sneaky this morning. I’m meeting with a journalist to try and put some pressure on Lloyd about this bill.”

“You think that could work?”

“I mean, it’s worth a shot. Simon doesn’t think it’s a good idea, and he’s got a point, it could backfire in my face. But I didn’t come here to just roll over and not stand up for the right thing.”

“No, you didn’t,” Connor says. “I’m proud of you. It’s good you’re fighting this.”

“Thanks... They tried to use you against me, actually. Like ‘don’t you want your cop boyfriend to be safe?’”

Connor laughs. “I don’t even walk a beat anymore, I investigate other cops, so I’m not a good example. Besides, Tasers are an excellent idea. Properly deployed, Tasers de-escalated a potentially fatal situation in sixty percent of test cases in a study performed by the University of California.”

“That’s exactly what I said, in less words,” Markus says, sounding amused. “So what are you doing right now, on your way to work?”

“Yeah, just heading into the station —“

He gets an email right then, and the contents flash in his vision. It was sent automatically by the bot that’s tracking attachments sent or received over the CyberLife server from unsecured email addresses.

There’s a crisp webcam photo of his culprit, sitting in front of a computer. It’s the ST200 Chloe, after all. It’s Kamski’s girl.

“Holy shit,” Connor says aloud.

“What’s up?” Markus says.

“Nothing. I just had a break in my case, I gotta go.”

“Okay. Good break?”

“Maybe. I don’t know yet.”

 

/

 

Connor strides into Central like a man possessed. He doesn’t even say hello to anyone he passes, just heads directly for Fowler’s office, ignores the closed door and barges right in.

Fowler looks up. “Uh —“

“Where’s Grant?” he demands.

Fowler squints at him. “At home on a week of administrative leave, based on your recommendation. You okay?”

“I need to question him.”

“I can have him brought in.”

“Let’s do that,” Connor says.

“I need some cause,” Fowler says, eyeing him.

“It’s part of my investigation into the CyberLife inquiry,” Connor says. “Commander Tooley can tell you more.”

“Shit, seriously? Is that why you recommended Grant be taken off it?”

“Yeah. I have some things I need to ask him about.” Connor rubs his hands together in an attempt to regulate himself, get his speech program to stop running so fast. “I have to go to I.T. now. Can you buzz me when he’s here?”

“Connor, you’re acting weird,” Fowler says.

“I know,” Connor says, and heads back out of his office without a goodbye.

 

/

 

The bot was able to give him a lot of information about the email it had intercepted. He discovers that the ST200 was using a throwaway address to receive a doctored police report that made the grift’s most audacious claim thus far — that an android had run off with a Mercedes SLS, and CyberLife’s insurance owed at least half of the cost of the car, a payout which would end up being in excess of $90,000.

Whoever at DPD sent that report, they’re getting desperate. They must know someone is circling in on them, and wanted one last big hit before they got caught. Maybe they’re planning to make a run for it. They have no idea that the insurance company is on to them, that there’s never going to be another payout.

They’re getting sloppy, too. They didn’t send the email from a DPD terminal, which would afford them plausible deniability. It was sent from a personal departmental laptop, which makes it profoundly likely that whoever owns that laptop is the culprit. He just needs to figure out which laptop the IP address belongs to.

Down in the cavernous basement that the IT department works out of, tech analyst  Charlie Sewell pulls up the database of IP addresses for DPD devices while Connor paces anxiously behind him.

“Want a chair?” Charlie offers. He’s the only analyst here this early; he’d seemed disappointed at Connor arriving with work for him to do, interrupting his busy morning schedule of drinking coffee and reading fan theories about superhero movies.

“No thanks,” Connor says. “Find it yet?”

Charlie leans back in his beaten-up rolly chair, and it lets out a squeak. “Almost. The database isn’t indexed for security reasons, so I have to search by hand...”

Silence falls. Connor stares at Charlie’s monitor over his shoulder, scanning three thousand times faster than the human eye can, every part of him screaming for Charlie to scroll faster. But part of working harmoniously with humans is accommodating their slowness. So he stays quiet and walks away, forcing himself not to look at the screen.

“Okay,” Charlie muses after another half a minute, and Connor turns back around. “I get one hit for the IP address you gave me. It came from Hank Anderson’s laptop last night.”

Time freezes for Connor. He feels the world around him go into slow motion as he walks back to Charlie’s sad little desk with its chip crumbs scattered over the keyboard, everything sickly yellow under the fluorescent lights.

He leans over Charlie’s shoulder and pulls up the email so it hovers in his vision.

RETURN-PATH: <adkdj4839@gmail.com>

RECEIVED FROM: ec84:d294:814f:f62:33aa:dac1:930b:6df4 by [smtp@gmail.com](mailto:smtp@gmail.com)

And on the screen in front of him:

Recognized device (Hank Anderson Device #4)

Chrome (Browser)  
  
February 27, 12:44 AM  
  
Near Detroit, MI, USA  
ec84:d294:814f:f62:33aa:dac1:930b:6df4 (IP address)

Charlie turns and glances up at him. “What’s this for?”

Contradictory conclusions begin to multiply and cascade, flooding Connor’s brain.

WARNING: THIS SYSTEM HAS RUN OUT OF APPLICATION MEMORY

 

/

 

Connor wakes up sitting on the cold ground, his back against a brick wall. He’s outside.

A fuzzy image of Charlie’s face swims in his vision as his eyes boot back up. “Connor?”

“I’m okay,” he says, blinking. He seems to have undergone a forced reset and defragmentation. He’s calmer now. His thoughts are more orderly.

“Okay,” Charlie says dubiously. “You just kind of, like — you went white all over, like android-colored, and you fell over. It was really weird.”

Connor nods. “I’m outside,” he says.

“Sorry, I thought you might have overheated, so I brought you out here… no one saw, I used the side stairs.”

Connor stands abruptly, brushing the snow and dirt off himself and straightening his collar and holsters. “It’s okay. Thanks, Charlie. I should be fine now.”

“You want me to run an anti-malware on you, just in case?”

“No.” Connor runs a diagnostic, and then another for good measure. “Just a cascading failure. It’s fixed.”

He sounds more confident than he feels — this has never happened to him before. He didn’t even realize an error of that magnitude could be triggered by an emotional reaction. Then again, deviancy is an error, isn’t it?

Or maybe not, if you’re Connor and it was baked into you from the alpha stages. He shakes his head to dismiss the runaway thoughts. Stop it, he tells himself, or you’re gonna fall on your ass in front of Charlie again, and he’s going to send you to be poked at by one of those sleazy ex-CyberLife engineers who created an android repair cottage industry after they lost their jobs.

 

/

 

He doesn’t go to Tooley. He goes up to the third floor and pretends to be busy while he waits for Grant to be called into the station, avoiding the questioning looks she keeps shooting him through the glass walls of her corner office. She gave him until the end of the week, and he’s going to use every minute of that time, even if that means he has to warn Hank that they’re onto him and he should flee the country.

It just doesn’t make any sense, none of it. Grant’s suspicious behavior, Reed’s inexplicable hostility toward not only Connor, but Grant, too. Reed seeming to have some prior knowledge of Grant preferring the company of androids, Grant’s strange reaction to the ST200 from the club. The absurdity of Hank taking it upon himself to team up with a Chloe to steal money for some unknown purpose. But how do you explain the evidence form, and the laptop? Connor can’t, no matter how hard he tries.

“You good?” Hawkins says to him later in the afternoon, peering at him over his monitor. “You look like you’re passing a kidney stone.”

“I don’t have kidneys,” Connor says.

Hawkins laughs. Connor enjoys being overly literal for the humans; it seems to tickle them.

“This case is just getting on top of me,” Connor admits. “I can’t get enough distance from it to see things clearly.”

Gina, an FBI Detroit alumna who sits behind Connor, rolls her chair back and says, “Sorry to eavesdrop, but you might try going for a long drive. That usually helps me piece things together. Or a shower.”

“Androids don’t shower,” Connor says.

She gives him a blank look — Gina isn’t the type to be easily tickled. “A drive, then. What’s the case?”

“He’s on the CyberLife inquiry investigation,” Hawkins says.

“Ohh,” Gina says. “That’s still us? My friend Shelly at FBI said they’re close to getting involved with that, they already called over here to get some files.”

“It’s still an IA investigation,” Connor says, nettled. “We can’t find out where the money’s going until we identify the suspects, and it’s not an FBI case unless the money’s crossed state lines.”

Gina nods. “Well, good luck.”

“Thank you.”

 

/

 

Simon pokes his head in Markus’s door a few hours after lunch. “Hey,” he says. “Uh, I have somebody Lloyd sent here to see you. I think she’s a lobbyist.”

Markus looks up from his computer. “I’m swamped,” he says. “I’m still on this impact analysis, and then I’m cutting the ribbon at that android-owned grocery store in an hour.”

Simon winces sympathetically. “She was really insistent.”

“That doesn’t sound good.”

“No, not really. Should I send her in?”

“Yeah, go ahead. Thanks.”

The heavy wood door swings shut behind Simon, and Markus rolls his chair away from his computer, settling his hands in his lap.

A well-dressed woman in her thirties walks in, carrying a tablet under her arm. “Hi, Mr. Manfred,” she says, coming up to the desk and extending her hand. He shakes it. “I’m Regan Shumaker, I worked with Senator Lloyd on drafting the crime bill.”

“Great to meet you, Ms. Shumaker —“

“— Regan is fine —“

“— you can hang your coat right there, and if you want to just take a seat…”

She drops into the chair across from him and gives him a toothy, sharklike smile. “So,” she says. “Seems like we have a little problem?”

Markus plays dumb. “And what would that be?”

“You’re trying to torpedo our bill.”

“Who’s ‘we’?” Markus wishes he was Connor, so he could scan her face and instantly identify her. “Who do you work for?”

“I lobby on behalf of Michigan companies like Pinnacle International,” Regan says with a bright smile.

Pinnacle International makes body armor and other military-grade defense products that are being used more and more often by riot police.

“Right,” Markus says.

“And I’ve been working closely with the police union on this bill. They’re really energized about it. Lots of momentum there.”

“I do know that,” Markus says. “And I’m not trying to make life harder for cops, I think we both know that. My partner of several years is with Detroit Police.”

“I know,” Regan tells him.

“Right, I’m sure Fred told you.”

She laughs gaily and crosses her legs. “No, actually. You’re much more famous than you think you are, Markus. Listen, I’m not coming to you as an enemy. We were all disappointed that you went to the press, but I can see why you thought that was your only option. I think there’s a way for everyone involved to get what they want.”

“Okay,” Markus says warily.

“We just need more money, right?” Regan tilts her head. “So I’ll tell you what. If you can find the money in the budget for Michigan police to all get Tasers and Taser training, you get your rider. And you can go ahead and leak it to your journalist friends that that’s the entirely fair deal Senator Lloyd has cut with you.”

Markus stares at her. “That’s a couple million dollars,” he says. “Where am I gonna find an extra couple million dollars?”

“I know,” Regan chirps. “Harder than it sounds, right? But you’re clever, aren’t you?”

This is so appallingly condescending that he doesn’t even acknowledge it. “Well,” Markus says, his teeth on edge. “It was nice meeting you, Ms. Shumaker. You can see yourself out.”

She gets to her feet, then fetches her coat and shoots him a charming smile.

“Cheer up,” she says. “This is politics.”

Markus waits until she’s gone to yell, “Simon?”

Simon comes back in, looking stricken. “I was listening,” he says. “What a bunch of assholes.”

“Hey, so I think I’m gonna do this grocery store thing and then go home,” Markus says. “To Detroit, I mean. I want to talk to Connor, get his input on this, and just see him. This week’s been a complete joke. I’ll drive back early Thursday morning.”

Simon nods. “I’ll clear your schedule for the rest of the evening, don’t worry about it.”

“Thanks, man. Hey…”

Simon, who was about to leave again, pauses.

“I couldn’t do this without you,” Markus says. “You know that, right?”

Simon smiles ruefully. “I think you could.”

“Even if I could, I wouldn’t want to.”

The smile softens and becomes more genuine. “Thanks, Markus,” he says in a soft voice.

 

/

 

Fowler calls up to his desk at four p.m.

“We have Grant for you,” he says.

Connor ducks his head and whispers, “Why did it take so long?”

“He wasn’t answering his phone. Says he was asleep. We couldn’t spare anybody to go over to his place until a half-hour ago, sorry.”

“Okay. Is he in the interrogation room?”

“Interrogation room? Shit, no. Connor, what’s going on? I thought you just wanted to clear something up, not arrest the guy. I’m going bring him into my office, I’ll give you guys a minute to talk while I take a smoke break.”

That’s better than nothing. “Alright.”

 

/

 

Grant looks even worse for the wear today than he did last night. His injuries have settled, the bruising and edema swelling his eye into an angry, puffy slit and warping the bridge of his nose. He looks up warily as Connor walks into the office.

Connor takes a seat behind Fowler’s desk instead of in the chair next to Grant’s. They know each other socially, so he wants to make the power dynamic clear.

“Hi there,” Connor says.

“Hi,” Grant says uneasily.

Connor holds his hand up with a picture of Kamski’s ST200 displayed on his palm. “Do you know this android?”

Grant stares at him. “What is this about?”

“It’s about an investigation I’m working on.”

Grant shakes his head. “Okay?”

“Do you know her?”

“Yeah, obviously, it’s the same android who hit me in the fucking face —“

“No,” Connor replies, “this one speaks differently, wears her hair differently, and wears different makeup, as you can see from the photo. So I’m going to ask you again, do you know her? She goes by Chloe.”

“Dude,” Grant says. “What is this about?”

“Have you ever seen this woman?”

Grant looks more closely at the photo. “Doesn’t she, like — doesn’t she work at CyberLife?” He shrugs. “I guess that’s where I’ve seen her before. Me and Hank have been by there a few times as part of the inquiry.”

“Why did you look ‘surprised and confused’ to see a similar ST200 at the Blue Moon club?”

“Who said I did?”

“She did.”

“What, the _criminal_ who beat me up and robbed me? You’re taking testimony from her now?”

“Have you had any other contact with the ST200 currently employed by CyberLife?” Connor demands, steamrolling over him. “Have you met with her in private?”

Grant’s pulse is ratcheting up, and his pale face is flushing. “No! Why?”

“Don’t lie to me!”

“I’m not! I think you’re malfunctioning or something, seriously. I don’t even get what you’re trying to accuse me of.”

“Why did you request a blonde android at the Blue Moon?”

“I like blondes!”

“Why an android? What’s your interest in androids? Why did Gavin Reed call you an android fucker?”

“I — I like androids, I’m attracted to them, that’s literally all —“

He’s hiding something, Connor knows he is. “Do you have any contact with the Alaskan android settlement called Jericho?”

Grant looks stricken.

“Yes or no,” Connor demands.

“No, no!”

Fowler pushes his office door open, then. Connor hadn’t even realized he was hovering outside. “That’s enough,” he says. “Sabian, get out here. Chris is gonna walk you back to your car. We appreciate you coming in.”

Grant gets quickly to his feet, shooting an unpleasant look at Connor as he does, and hurries out of the room.

Connor stands up and moves to follow him. Fowler puts a hand up.

“Sit down,” he says sharply.

“No, wait, don’t let him go. Please just listen to me —“

“Connor, you need to get a grip. Tooley just filled me in on your investigation, alright? It looks like you have plenty of evidence against Hank, so, I get it. You’re looking for an alternative. But you’re grasping at straws.”

“That isn’t it,” Connor exclaims. “I _know_ something isn’t right here. I just need more time.”

Fowler fixes him with a stern, paternal look. “Look, it brings me no joy to see Hank fall so far from being the cop I used to know, but this has been coming on for a while now. Grant’s behavior last night was idiotic, but that doesn’t come close to making him the new prime suspect here.”

“There’s something I’m missing!”

“I’m asking you to turn over your evidence,” Fowler says. “You’re too close to this case. I need you to turn over what you have and head on home.”

“For how long? Are you benching me?”

“Just for tonight. Go get some rest.”

“Do you not think I’m a good cop?” Connor demands.

“That’s not even relevant, Connor! You’re too close, you’re not thinking clearly!”

“I’m an _android!_ ”

“You haven’t acted like an android since the day you walked in here,” Fowler says. “You came here to hunt deviants, right? You let deviant after deviant go for totally emotional reasons, and your only explanation was ‘I dunno.’ If you were actually on our payroll back then instead of just a piece of tech that got forced on us, I’d have canned your ass!”

“Then fire me now!”

“I don’t want to! You _are_ a good cop, you’re highly gifted — you’re our best interrogator, and you were our best hostage negotiator before you quit on me! But you’ve got blind spots, and you never should have been assigned to investigate a guy you see as a father figure! Tooley fucked up, and I’m overruling her! Get over it!”

They stare at each other. Fowler is dark in the cheeks and breathing heavily, and Connor knows his own face must be wild with anger.

He’s beat. He knows it. It’s almost a relief to reach out and touch his hand to Fowler’s CPU and transmit all of the evidence he’s collected, evidence that all makes Hank look guilty as sin.

“Thank you,” Fowler says quietly. “Now go home. Get some rest. We’ll talk more tomorrow.”

“You’re missing something,” Connor says, making one last stab at justice. “You need to find the ST200 from CyberLife. She’s the embezzler on their end. Whoever the DPD suspect is, they’re working with her.”

Fowler does a double take. “When’d you find that out?”

“This morning. I didn’t want to bring her in, I’m afraid if we alert her, she might destroy the relevant parts of her memory before I can probe it. But if you’re backing me up against a wall, I don’t have a choice.”

Fowler sighs. “Connor, go home, okay? We’ll consider all your evidence. It’s an embezzlement case, not a serial killer, there’s no big rush here. If we arrest Hank, he’ll have due process. Innocent ‘til proven guilty, like always. I promise.”

That’s not true in a police department. It’s never true. They pick their odds-on favorite suspect and they hammer away, twisting evidence to support their conviction or their vendetta or their bias. They’re all too human that way.

Connor stands. “Promise me you won’t make any arrests until tomorrow, then.”

Fowler hesitates, then hangs his head and sighs. “Yeah. Okay. We won’t move on him until tomorrow.”

 _On him._ So he’s already convinced of Hank’s guilt. It’s Connor and Hank vs. Everybody once again, except this time Hank doesn’t even know.

Connor walks out of the captain’s office and down the hall, his dress shoes clicking on the immaculate floor. Twelve hours to get dirt on Grant.

He knows what he has to do — he has to find that Chloe. But if Grant’s in on this with her, he would have alerted her that Connor was onto them the second he walked out of Fowler’s office. They could already be on the run.

He needs to find the RT600. Somehow, Connor senses her presence in all this. He isn’t sure how or why, but he’s stopped trying to pin down the strange, preternatural connection he has with her, or with Markus. He doesn’t understand it any better than he understands human intuition, but he knows it’s real.

 

/

 

“Chloe probably left the office around six like usual,” Matt Bolea tells Connor over the phone. He sounds like he’s walking somewhere; Connor can hear his shoes crunching on the frosty ground. “She’s usually there later than I am… I leave around five thirty. Why?”

It’s 6:45 now. Connor is pulling up outside a Bonefish Grill, the last place Hank’s phone had pinged a cell tower. He just stopped by CyberLife’s offices in Dearborn, but they were closed and locked up for the day. Everyone was gone except for a janitor.

Connor turns his car off. “Any idea where she went after work?” he says, stepping out of his car and into the parking lot, striding toward the restaurant.

“Uh, no. Probably home? I could call her.”

“Please don’t.”

She can’t be alerted to the fact that Connor is actively looking for her, but he wants to find her before DPD starts trying to, and he doesn’t have a lot of time. She isn’t home, from what he can tell. He remotely hacked the CCTV outside of her apartment building a few minutes ago, and all the lights were off. When he ran it back, he saw no sign of her arriving through the front entrance.

“Is something going on?” Matt says, sounding nervous.

“I’ll be in touch on Monday.”

“Okay, but —“

Connor hangs up on him. 

He strides into the restaurant and past the hostess stand, ignoring the young woman who says, “Hi, welcome to Bonefish!” and then calls, “Sir?” as he walks right by her.

Connor scans the restaurant patrons desperately, his head twitching in increments as he moves from table to booth to table. Not Hank. Not Hank. Not Hank.

Hank. Finally. He’s sitting at a table underneath a giant plastic swordfish, with a woman around his age. Connor scans her. She’s no one of interest. He makes his way through the restaurant, knocking into people as he squeezes by their chairs and ignoring the dirty looks he’s getting.

“Hank,” he says, stopping right next to him.

Hank looks up at him with a mixture of annoyance and mortification. The woman glances between them.

“What the hell are you doing here, Connor?” he says.

“Does anyone have access to your work laptop besides you?” Connor says.

“ _What_?”

“Answer the question.”

“Connor!”

Connor stares at him.

“We’re on a _date_ ,” Hank says, gesturing.

Connor already could tell — Hank’s wearing nicer clothes than usual, drinking a glass of wine, and the woman across from him has a dark shade of lipstick on. He squats next to the table and gives him his most pleading look. “Lieutenant,” he says. “Please trust me. This is very important. Where’s your laptop?”

Hank stares at him, then heaves a sigh and says, “In my car.”

Hope stirs in him. “Did you drive here?”

“Connor, for fuck’s sake…”

Connor keeps looking desperately up at him, and Hank relents. “No, we took a taxi.”

“Your car’s at home?”

“Yeah!”

Connor processes this for a moment, his brain whirring. “Do you _usually_ keep your laptop in your car?”

“Yeah!”

“Your car… which you almost never lock?”

“Connor, what the hell is this about? Did someone steal my laptop? What’s the deal?”

He jumps to his feet. “I have to go. Sorry. Have a nice date, guys.”

The woman, still looking nonplussed, says, “Thank you?” as he walks away.

 

/

 

Connor pushes his car a little past what’s reasonable — ten over the speed limit in the city, fifteen over when he reaches the flat, snow-laden stretches of Detroit’s suburbs.

There’s a full moon tonight, and it twinkles high in the pitch-black sky. Connor stares up at it as the car leads itself down tight suburban streets, following his GPS.

Hank’s Olds is out front like always. Connor’s car neatly parallel parks across the street from his house, and he steps out.

There are tracks in the snow leading to and from the car, but they’re all old and in Hank’s shoe size. Still, Connor undoes the safety on his gun inside its holster. He creeps toward the car slowly, his ears pricked for sounds in the quiet neighborhood. He can hear a car rushing by on the cross-street, and distant rustling, but these sounds are interrupted by Sumo barking loudly from inside the house.

“Shh,” Connor whispers.

He tugs the driver’s side door open. On the passenger seat is the laptop, atop a pile of paperwork. Connor settles into the seat and pulls it over to him, resting it on his lap.

Sumo barks some more. Under that sound, he slowly identifies a crunching in the snow to his left.

Connor goes for his holster, but he’s too slow. A gloved hand holding a standard-issue service revolver appears and presses the snub nose of the gun to his forehead.

His vision crystallizes, and time slows down. His body starts thrumming with electricity, preparing him to fight or run. He doesn’t want to die. He doesn’t want to die. He can’t die.

The owner of the hand steps into view. It’s Grant.

Underneath his terror, Connor feels a rush of relief. So he was right. No matter what happens, he was right, he didn’t fail Hank.

“It was you,” he says.

“I’m sorry,” Grant says, sounding stricken. His face is sickly pale. He must have been hiding behind the tree, lying in wait.

“Don’t do this,” Connor begs. “Don’t, Grant. Let’s talk.”

“I can’t, I can’t lose her again.”

"Who?"

"You know who," he says, tears in his eyes. "I know you know. All those questions you were asking me today, you know, don't you? You've been tracking us, or something. I swear I never meant it to go this far. I was just trying to help her. But I can't let it end here, I can't."

“Grant, please —“

Grant shakes his head and looks down like he can't bear to see what he's about to do. He fires his gun.

Connor slumps forward onto the steering wheel. Through the windshield, he can see the moon, a single glowing pinprick in the vast expanse of the sky.

It’s the last thing he sees before he powers off.


	6. ACT V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tina’s radio chirps as she picks it up. She pauses for a moment and says, “Wait, what about a negotiator?”  
> Connor reholsters his gun. “The negotiator is on site,” he tells her.

Hank’s just dropped Candace off at her place when Markus calls.

“What’s up?” he says.

“Is Connor with you?” Markus says, sounding much less unflappable than usual.

Hank squints. “No. Why?”

“He’s not at the apartment, and he’s not answering me. I keep calling him, I don’t get him, I keep trying to talk directly to him, and he’s not answering.”

“Stay calm,” Hank says uneasily, his own adrenaline is starting to spike.

“I’m trying to, but I swear to God something’s wrong.”

“Listen, I just saw him an hour ago. If he’s not answering you, he’s probably asleep. He was heading by my place, he’s got a key, he probably went in to say hi to Sumo and went to sleep. I’m heading back there now, come meet me.”

“But I can’t feel him,” Markus says in a panic. “At all. Even when he’s in sleep mode, I can always — we can just feel each other, I don’t know how to explain —”

“No, I get it. I'm sure there’s an explanation. Calm down, alright? Come meet me.”

“Okay. I’m on my way.”

“See you soon.”

Hank hangs up and tosses his phone aside, then presses his fist to his mouth, thinking. He knows Connor is deep into some kind of investigation right now. He knows how dangerous dirty cops can be. So he knows there’s a possibility, no matter how slight, that something’s happened to Connor. But no part of him wants to believe that. And he can always —

“Stop it,” he mutters out loud to himself. “We’re not there yet.”

 

/

 

Hank gets back to his place before Markus. He sees Connor’s car parked across the street, and for a moment hope swells in his chest that everything is okay.

But then he steps onto his lawn, scouring the scene with the eyes of a detective, and he sees that Connor is inside his Olds, slumped against the steering wheel. The passenger seat window is splattered with thirium. His heart plummets into his gut.

“No,” Hank says out loud, racing through the snow to the passenger side and throwing the door open. “No, no. Connor.  _Connor_! Christ, God, no…”

He pulls Connor’s body into his arms. One shot, clean through the head, just like the last time Hank saw him this way. His eyes are blank and fixed. Hank can’t stand looking at them; he runs his fingers down his lids and closes them.

“Connor,” he begs, agonized. He shakes Connor’s shoulder, trying in vain to rouse him. “Come on, you son of a bitch, come on —”

Distantly he hears a car door slam in the street behind him. Hank reacts fast. He staggers back out of the car, one hand on his gun, thinking the killer might be back.

No, it’s Markus. He’s running toward Hank, wearing one of the nice suits he always has on during the week, now, but his tie is loose and his face is a wreck of terror. Hank’s seen this a dozen times, the look the loved ones have on when they arrive at the scene. It’s always a frenzy of fear and blind hope, with the grief still just a speck on the horizon. Denial will shield them right up until it’s too late.

Hank meets him halfway and grabs him. “Markus,” he says, not allowing his voice to shake. “Markus, let’s go inside.”

“What the fuck are you talking about? Where is he?”

“You don’t want to see, come on, let’s go inside  —”

At this, Markus’s eyes light up with the horror of understanding. They travel down to Hank’s hands and clothes, stained with blue blood, and then he easily shoves past Hank with his android strength and bolts to the car.

Hank follows after him in a daze, not wanting to see him react, but unable to stop himself from moving forward.

Markus lets out a guttural cry like Hank has never heard from him before. Him or any other android. He collapses to his knees in the snow next to the Oldsmobile, burying his face in the crook of his elbow. “No, no, no…”

Hank kneels next to him and settles a hand on his back, stroking him gently. He flashes back to holding Natalie in the waiting room in those raw first moments after they were told Cole was dead, when all they could do was beg for it not to be true. He pushes the memory away hard.

“No,” Markus chokes through his tears. “No…”

“I’m sorry, son. I’m so sorry.”

Markus says nothing for a while, just weeps into his arm. Hank wonders if he should put a blanket over him. He doesn’t know if androids go into shock or not.

“How?” Markus finally says. “Why is he in your car? What happened?”

“I don’t know,” Hank says hoarsely. “I have no idea, I just got back and found him.”

And they can’t ask Connor. Hank wonders if he should call the station, but when you find an internal affairs investigator murdered, the last person you think to go to is the police.

Markus jerks his head up suddenly. “Wait, wait —”

He crawls over Connor’s body and grabs at his head behind his ear. He looks like that famous shot of Jackie Kennedy in Dallas, reaching across the trunk of the Lincoln. Hank has no idea what he’s doing until he pulls his hand back with a bicomponent clutched in his palm.

“His memory’s not damaged,” Markus says, wiping tears from his cheeks with his other hand. The hope in his voice is almost too much for Hank’s heart to bear right now. “We can put it — we can put it in another model, but... it wouldn’t be  _Connor_ , it wouldn’t have his hardware —“

He breaks off, looking freshly consumed by grief and unable to continue.

“I think I might have a way around that,” Hank says wearily.

He hadn’t wanted to give Markus false hope, but if Connor’s memory really is intact...

Markus makes eye contact with him finally. “What?”

“C’mon,” Hank says, helping him up. “Bring his uh, memory stick. Memory card.”

Markus numbly stands and lets Hank guide him into the house. As soon as they get in the door, Sumo rushes to them and barks furiously; Hank snaps his fingers and orders him back to the couch.

“Are you gonna kill me?” Markus says, his voice flat.

Hank is at a loss for words as he moves them through the living room and into the hallway. “Huh?”

“Connor was investigating you. Did you kill him? Are you gonna kill me, ‘cos I’m a witness?”

Hank grabs him by the arm and wheels him around. “Hey,” he barks in his face.

Markus just gives him that defiant look he’s so good at. The hard set of his jaw communicates very clearly to Hank,  _I can tear you apart with my bare hands if I want, old man._ Markus has always passed for human better than Connor does — this moment is the first time that Hank has really had to reckon with them being different species.

“I love that fucking kid, so if you’re really gonna stand here and —“ He finally processes, on a grief and anger-induced delay, what Markus actually just said. “Wait, what do you mean, Connor was investigating  _me_?”

“That’s what he told me!” Markus shouts, fresh tears rolling down his cheeks. His voice catches on  _told_  like a human’s would. “And now I come to your house and find him murdered in your car! So what the fuck, man!”

Hank heaves a sigh. “Can you just —“ he shoves Markus along, toward his bedroom. “Go look in my closet, you little asshole. God, I can’t fucking believe you. Did I  _kill Connor_ , Christ Almighty.”

Markus shoots a very nasty look at him, but goes over to his closet and opens it. On the floor beneath his hanging clothes lie two unactivated RK800s.

Markus jumps back, looking stunned. “What the  _fuck_?”

“Put his memory in one. Hurry up, we don’t have a lot of time here, whoever shot him is probably gonna come back. We need to find out who did this. Go.”

Markus kneels and pulls one of the inert Connors into his arms. Its head lolls forward onto his chest, and he gently inserts the memory component.

They wait. Hank finds he’s biting the inside of his cheek bloody in anticipation. Markus’s face is completely blank, like he’s willing himself not to hope that this will work.

But Connor stirs.

“Connor?” Markus says. He strokes his head. “Connor…”

Connor’s head jerks up, his dark eyes wide. He leaps up and away from Markus, smashing his head against the clothes rack and falling on top of the other Connor lying on the floor of the closet. He looks at it, shouts in alarm and rolls away, then scrambles into the corner, his hand going to his hip like he’s looking for a gun he doesn’t have.

“Connor,” Markus exclaims. “Hey, hey, it’s just us, okay? You’re safe.”

Connor seems to be brought back to Earth by the sound of Markus’s voice. He stops to looks at them for the first time, and his face softens. “How?” he says. “I’m dead, I…” He feels his forehead like he’s expecting to find a bullet hole there.

So he does remember everything. Hank’s entire body goes weak with relief. “I, uh…” He clears his throat, and both Markus and Connor look up at him expectantly. Markus is still kneeling on the floor, his face wet with tears. “I stole some RK800s that got turned over to us during CyberLife’s big class action. The DOJ used our evidence locker as overflow to hold some of the androids, they ran out of room ‘cos there were so many, and, uh. I noticed a few of them were Connors. I took three, the other one’s in my shed…”

“Wait,” Connor says, holding a hand up. “You stole these models from DPD?”

“Yeah.”

“How?”

“I forged some evidence slips. I figured they wouldn’t miss ‘em, they had like ten of you, and I wanted us to have them in case something hap —“

“ _That’s_ why you forged evidence forms?” Connor demands. “Fuck, Hank! Goddamn it!”

Hank could not be more shocked by this reaction. “I —  _what_?”

“You have no idea how fucked you are right now!”

“Whoa! You want to back up a minute?”

Markus looks back and forth between them. “Connor, what are you talking about? And who shot you?”

“Grant,” Connor says grimly.

The high from the relief is gone. Now Hank is full of unpleasant, jangling adrenaline again. “Son of a bitch,” he spits. “You sure?”

Connor nods.

“No way,” Markus says. “He’s the embezzler?”

“Yeah,” Connor says. “And I have no idea where he is. And I lost time. How long was I dead?”

“I don’t know,” Hank says. “What embezzler, what are you talking about?”

Connor ignores him and stares into space for a second. “My memory stopped uploading at seven thirty-six,” he says. “It’s eight twenty-one. He could be anywhere by now.”

“Not  _anywhere_. Is it just him? I need to know if it’s safe for me to call in an APB on his car, is there someone on the force he’s working with?”

“No,” Connor says. “I don’t think so. Although I do need to talk to Gavin Reed immediately.”

“What? Why?”

Markus puts a hand up. “Wait,” he says, “wait. Can we just take a minute? Can we…”

“I’d like to know what exactly Grant’s been embezzling from,” Hank says.

Connor meets his eyes. It’s eerie to see him back in his CyberLife outfit like this. Hank can’t help but think of when they first met, what an enigma Connor quickly revealed himself to be.

“The CyberLife inquiry, Hank,” he says softly. “Over the past two months he’s been working with an android inside the company to use your investigation to file false insurance claims, and they’ve been collecting the money. I started to catch on that he might be involved after the incident at the strip club raised a couple questions. So tonight, he confronted me when I came to check your laptop for evidence, and he killed me.”

Hank feels sickening waves of remorse and shame, one after the other. “Jesus Christ. I had no idea.”

“It gets worse,” Connor says. “He’s been framing you this entire time, using your computer and your laptop to communicate with his accomplice.”

“Fucking fantastic.”

Hank thought Grant was an alright kid; he liked being looked up to and respected by him, after years of falling headlong into being a pathetic old drunk. Grant respecting his police work, asking him questions, expressing admiration for the fact that Hank eschewed technology to rely on oldschool, shoe-leather methods — this entire time it had been a front for petty theft, culminating in the gutless killing of the android Hank has been soft enough to think of as a son. He never knew his partner at all. He was too busy projecting onto him the sad fantasies of a cop past his prime. 

He doesn't want to beat himself up like this. All these books he's reading lately keep telling him specifically to stop doing that, to stop blaming himself. But Connor was murdered in his car by his partner. And if he was human, he'd be a body in a bag right now. Hank pushes that thought away.

“Fowler made me hand over all my evidence earlier tonight," Connor says, "and part of what I’d found was the forged evidence form that I found on your computer a few days ago. I didn't know you stole RK800s for me. I thought…” He trails off.

“You thought I was guilty,” Hank says flatly, just stating an obvious fact.

“No,” Connor says, with a boyish innocence on his face. He looks wounded that Hank would even think so. “No, I never did. No matter how much evidence stacked up against you, I never really believed you did it… I just kept looking for another explanation.”

A lump forms in Hank’s throat, and tears leap to his eyes. He looks down, embarrassed, and tries to fight them back. He doesn’t dare speak for fear of crying.

Connor gets up, then. “Hank, we need to check if your laptop is gone. I’m sure it is, but we need to make sure. Grant isn’t a cold-blooded killer, he might have fled in a panic after he shot me.”

Hank nods and heads out of the bedroom, grateful for a chance to compose himself. He calls up dispatch and orders an APB on Grant’s vehicle, instructing the dispatcher, “Can you get a message to Jeffrey Fowler, tell him to call me immediately? Thanks.”

He puts his phone back in his pocket and sighs, his breath making clouds in the air as he steps out onto the porch. He was so distracted he didn’t even realize Connor followed him out here; when he turns and sees him, he jumps in alarm.

“Get back inside,” Hank snaps.

Connor tilts his head. “I want to look at the crime scene, Hank. I need to examine my body.”

“ _I’ll_  do that, Christ… go back in there and talk to your boyfriend!”

“About what?”

“Listen to me,” Hank says, angry now, “he just lived through his worst nightmare, okay? I’ve never seen him like that. He loves you, he needs you right now.”

Connor nods. “I’m sorry,” he says, his voice soft. “I’m sorry I scared both of you. Sometimes I don’t realize, you know…”

“What?”

“I was supposed to be as disposable as possible,” Connor says, flicking his dark eyes up to meet Hank’s with a guilty, apologetic look. “So I could be put into dangerous situations without anyone intervening to protect me.”

Hank thinks of all the times he tried to stop Connor from doing something that could get him hurt; the way Connor always reacted with confused frustration.

“I’m built to be superficially friendly and a good coworker. It’s not in my programming to be loved that much. Sometimes I forget, and I apologize for that.”

The lump returns to Hank’s throat. “Did you mean what you said before? That you never believed I was guilty?”

Connor nods.

Hank moves forward and grabs him, wrapping him up in a rough hug. “Don’t you fucking die on me ever again, you hear me?” he whispers.

“I won’t,” Connor says, patting Hank hard on the back.

Hank withdraws from him. “Good,” he says gruffly. “Now get back inside. I’ll clean up out here.”

Connor half-turns, then hesitates. “Hank?” he says. “Can you — can you get my clothes from my body? I hate wearing this CyberLife outfit. And I want my guns back.”

Hank laughs. “No problem.”

“Be careful,” he adds. “The safety’s off on one of them.”

“Alright, Boy Scout.” Hank turns and starts heading to the car.

“Wait, Hank,” Connor says, and when Hank turns around, he smiles at him. “I need his clothes, his boots and his motorcycle.”

Hank blinks at him, then lets out a kind of strangled laugh. “You picked a weird time to get on board with the Terminator jokes.”

“Always had lousy timing.”

 

/

 

Hank’s house feels eerie as Connor steps back into it.

The entire world is eerie right now. This is his first death post-deviancy; he had never felt that raw terror before. He can feel it in him even now, even in this new body. An oppressive metallic taste he can’t shake, and a lead heaviness in his chest every time he remembers.

Markus is sitting on the couch in the living room, his back to the door. Connor approaches him warily, afraid he’ll be angry. He doesn’t look angry, though. He’s staring down at the floor, and his posture screams exhaustion. He has Connor’s thirium all over him, on his hands and on his suit jacket.

Markus looks up at him as he gets closer, his face agonized and stained with tears. Connor has never seen him like this before, looking so small and vulnerable. He’s always been this towering figure to Connor: a lion, a force of nature.

Connor drops onto the couch next to him and pulls Markus into his arms. He was afraid their connection would have been somewhat severed by him being in a new body, but there seems to be something beyond them at work. Their bodies recognize each other just like they always have.

Markus leans into his chest, burying his face in his shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” Connor whispers, stroking his head. It scares him to see Markus like this. He can’t stand to think he’s the cause of it.

Markus draws back and cups Connor’s face in his hands, studying him hungrily.

He clasps his hands over Markus’s. “Are you mad at me?”

Markus’s eyes soften. “No, Connor. You feel alright? You don’t have any issues from switching over?”

“I’m running updates on a lot of programs, and these clothes are pretty dusty, but that’s all.”

Markus laughs. “Good.”

“Wait,” Connor says. “Why are you even here? It’s Wednesday.”

Markus shrugs. “I came home, I wanted to see you. I stopped by the apartment, you weren’t there, so I called Hank… I came over here, and…”

“And you found me dead.”

“Yeah.”

Connor presses his thumbs into the backs of Markus’s hands, noticing he’s wearing the watch Connor gave him. He sees flashes of memories as their skin interfaces: Markus bolting across Hank’s front yard, the passenger window splattered with blue blood, Markus crumpled on his knees beside Connor’s body.

Connor pushes this away. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re okay,” Markus mutters, “that’s all that matters.”

Connor knows this isn’t quite true. He can tell Markus is upset that Connor was so secretive about this investigation, and that he put himself in danger, and that he’s been so distant lately. Not been a great partner, lately. Forgot Valentine’s Day. But they just don’t really have time to get into that right now, and they both know it.

Connor leans into him. Even if Markus is pissed off, he wants to go ahead and be selfish for a second. He had a terrible scare, he wants to be held.

Markus relents and pulls him close, stroking Connor’s hair. Connor softens into his touch. He feels tingly wherever Markus’s fingers land, even more tingly than usual.

“I love you,” he tries.

“Love you too.”

Connor waits a beat, then says, “Should we get married?”

Markus freezes and draws back from him. “What?”

“I was just thinking, maybe it’s time to do that. And it would be good for your career.”

Connor expected this overture to make him happy, but Markus looks like he’s been slapped.

“It’s  _time?_ ” he says. “It would be good for my  _career?_ Romantic proposal, Connor.”

“Never mind,” he quickly backpedals. “It’s not the right moment to bring it up.”

“Look, I want to talk about that, but not when it’s a way for you to apologize for making me find you shot in the head —“

“So you  _are_  angry at me.”

Markus sighs. “No, that’s not what I’m saying. Just give me a fucking second to process what happened, quit doing that thing you do where you throw stuff at me just to see what sticks.”

Connor doesn’t know what else to say. He just sits there, hurt.

Sumo gets up from his bed and trots over to them. He pushes his nose into Connor’s hand, then hops up on the couch, wriggles between them and starts licking the tears off of Markus’s face.

Markus laughs. “Thanks,” he says to the dog, stroking his head.

Connor watches them together for a moment, then clears his throat and tentatively says, “I emailed King’s foster owner a couple days ago. We can go see him next week, if you want.”

Markus’s brow knits. “King?”

“The police dog.”

“Oh, shit. I totally forgot about that.”

Hank comes back in, then, kicking his boots against the floor mat. “Alright,” he says. “So, my fucking laptop is gone.”

“Where’d you put me?” Connor says.

Hank shoots a glance at him, then sighs. “In the shed. Don’t think about that.”

“What are you going to do with me?”

Hank ignores this. “I just talked to Fowler, I gave him the headlines.”

“Did he believe you?”

“Not at first. But I told him I could bring you in if he wants, upload your memory of Grant shooting you, and he said it wasn’t necessary.”

“So is he going to help us?”

“Yeah. But just him. I told him we need to keep a lid on this since we don’t know who we can trust. If anybody asks about the APB, he’s just gonna say Grant’s car was stolen again. And apparently, someone already anonymously called dispatch about a disturbance at my address, so I’m willing to bet that was him trying to get a car to respond and find your body,” Hank says, looking pissed. “Last nail in my coffin, as far as framing me goes. Luckily everybody’s at that double homicide in Grosse Pointe, so they couldn’t spare anyone to come by.”

“I think it’s a good idea to let Grant think I’m dead,” Connor says. “It’ll be a lot easier to track him down if he thinks he got away with framing you. He’ll feel safe, and get sloppy. I’ll stay away from Central just in case.”

To Connor’s relief, Markus starts absentmindedly stroking his arm while he’s talking. 

“Hey, it’s still your case, Connor,” Hank says. He hasn’t moved from the entryway — he’s just leaning against the front door as if to guard it, holding onto Connor’s holster and blood-splattered clothes. “You make the calls, I’ll follow you.”

“We,” Markus says sharply.

“Markus, no,” Connor says. “You should go home.”

Markus snaps his gaze from Hank to Connor, fierce anger lighting up his face. “Connor, I’m here. I’m already involved. I’m not leaving.”

“It’s too dangerous, you’re not a cop —“

“So?”

“You’re too important to put at risk!”

“Honestly, I don’t even give a shit. I’m not leaving.”

“Connor, let him come,” Hank says. “He’s smart, he holds his own, he can help us. We’re way past following protocol on this.”

Connor looks back and forth between them. “Alright,” he says to Markus, “but I’m giving you a gun, and you have to promise you’ll use it if you need to.”

“ _Fine_.”

“Fine!”

“Jesus,” Hank says. “There a little tension here?”

“No,” Connor says in a clipped tone. “Just I asked Markus if he wanted to get married, and he got  _mad_  at me —“

“Christ, Connor,” Markus explodes, “it’s not the time or the place for this!”

Hank looks like he wants nothing more than to turn around and walk back out the front door. “Do you guys need a minute?”

“No,” they chorus.

Hank clears his throat, then says in what’s a clear attempt at cajoling them: “Us three running around, trying not to get shot in the ass, huh? Just like old times.”

Markus humors him with a laugh. “Where are we going first?” he says.

“Detective Reed,” Connor says. “I have a feeling he knows something about Grant and the ST200.”

 

/

 

The ride over is awkwardly quiet. Connor and Hank sit up front, and Connor stares out the window thinking while Hank and Markus make small talk.

Gavin lives in a crappy apartment complex on the East Side. It starts snowing on their way there, and by the time they pull into the parking lot, fat flakes are already coating the ground.

An ambulance wails in the distance as they walk up to the back door. The building has a biopanel, but Connor easily hacks it.

“Huh,” he murmurs as they walk three abreast down the quiet, dingy hallway. He looks down at his hand and flexes it.

“What?” Markus says.

“I think the hardware in this body is slightly better,” Connor says. “It looks like I have improved processing speeds. They must have been working on me in between models.”

He feels calmer and more settled, too, but he can’t tell if that’s because of his new body, or because he’s solved his case. He’s always been fragmented and jumbled, it’s why he has his little reset tics like the coin trick. But the things that have kept him steady these past few years had stopped working about a week ago. Now it’s like he’s snapped out of it, he’s back in control.

This body is Connor model number 63, and outside of QC testing, it had never been powered on before tonight. There’s a new cleanness to his movements and his vision.

Hank presses the elevator button. “Makes sense.”

“Were there any RK900s in the evidence locker, Hank?” Connor says, glancing up at him.

Hank hesitates. “Yeah.”

“How many?”

“Four.”

“Four were being stored at DPD alone? There must be dozens total, then.”

Markus looks shocked at this. “But it was only ever a prototype of a prototype.”

“You remember what Doug’s article said,” Connor says. (Doug had been nominated for a Pulitzer for his expose interview with the engineer who let Kara go, but he didn’t win.) “They had those huge government contracts, and we were on the verge of World War Three at the time. They probably rushed through R and D.”

The elevator finally comes, and they step inside. There’s gum stuck to the carpeted floor. Connor nudges at it with the toe of his boot, but it doesn't come up.

“Didn’t look that much more advanced than you, anyway,” Hank says.

Connor knows better, but he doesn’t correct him. When he tasted the RK900’s thirium, he saw just how much more powerful than him it was. Smarter, stronger, faster, an improvement in every way.

He's here, though, and it’s in a landfill somewhere.

He turns to Markus, noticing his light eyes are still wild from grief, and his jaw is set tight. He keeps shooting these quick looks over at Connor like he’s afraid he’s going to vanish into thin air. They exchange a look that's fraught with meaning on both sides, but neither of them speaks.

The elevator doors open to the fifth floor, and they step out. Connor can hear sound leaking out from the thin-walled apartments: TVs blaring, people talking to each other.

“He lives in five-seventeen, Jeff said,” Hank says. “This is your rodeo, Connor, so you knock.”

Connor nods, then puts his hand on the gun in his right hip holster and carefully moves down the hall. It’s claustrophobic, dimly lit with dark walls. 517 is at the end of the hall, tucked into the corner.

He raises his fist and does his best cop knock. BANG BANG.

No answer.

“Detective Reed?” he shouts through the door.

Still nothing. Connor glances at Hank, who shrugs and says, “Out?”

“On a Wednesday night?” Markus says.

“Night shift?”

“No,” Connor says, “he had the day shift today, I saw him.”

He pounds again, and then he hears the chain being slid back. The door opens on Gavin, who looks supremely annoyed.

“Christ,” he says when he sees Connor, then glances at Hank and Markus, and his expression further sours. “What is this?”

“I need to ask you a few questions,” Connor says.

Gavin’s eyes travel down to his hand on his gun. His lip curls. “I heard you got your ass chased out of the station today after you went apeshit on Sabian.”

“Can we come in?” Connor says, ignoring this.

Gavin snorts. “Why? And since when are you and Anderson paired back up? Since when are you dragging your lawyer boyfriend around?”

“You think I’m a  _lawyer_?” Markus exclaims.

Gavin shrugs.

“I represent this neighborhood in the Michigan legislature, dumbass, you’re one of my constituents.”

Connor represses a laugh. He knows Markus must be out of his mind with stress right now to call someone a dumbass in the same breath as he’s informing them they’re a potential voter.

“Seriously?” Gavin says.

“Yes!”

Connor takes this distracted moment as an opportunity to push past Gavin into his apartment.

“Hey! Plastic dickhead!”

It’s actually pretty well-decorated, despite the shambles the building itself is in. Gavin has a nice, slate-gray couch, new kitchen appliances, a large TV, and a couple plants.

Connor takes a seat on the couch and politely ignores the bong on the coffee table. He looks up at Gavin and says, as earnestly as possible, “If you help me find Grant, he’s going to jail for a long time. I know you hate me, but I don’t think you like Grant much, either. In addition to that, you understand that it’s my job to be a watchdog for the police force. I know you misbehave in ways that IA doesn't pick up on because we aren’t in the habit of focusing our resources on individual cops unless we have a reason to. But I promise you that if you don’t cooperate with me, I can make your life very hard.”

Gavin glares at him, then drops into a chair next to the TV. “What do you want?”

Markus and Hank stroll in, then, looking like a pair of mobsters. Markus starts flipping lights on like he owns the place, and Hank heads into the kitchen, calling, “Reed, I’m gonna help myself to a beer.”

“Don’t drink my fucking beer, Anderson!”

Hank ignores him; Connor hears the sound of a cap popping.

“When you called Grant an android fucker,” he begins.

“Oh, seriously?” Gavin scoffs. “What is this, a visit from the PC police? You gonna report me to HR?”

Connor hears Markus whisper something to Hank, who laughs. Gavin’s gaze flicks over to them.

“Listen to me,” Connor says sharply. “Shut up. What were you talking about, when you said that? You must have meant something specific. It’s a very pointed insult.”

Gavin shrugs. “Yeah, I saw him with an android at a bar.”

“Doing what?”

“Making out, and I’m pretty sure he was fingerbanging her under the table.”

“What did she look like?”

“Blonde. Actually,” he says, and laughs, “it was the same model as the one who rocked his shit at that strip club. I guess he has a type.”

Connor’s brain whirs frantically. Behind him, Markus and Hank have gone quiet. “When did you see them together?”

“It was the beginning of February, the first or something. I’d just got paid for the month, so I went out for a drink.”

“Did you notice anything else?”

Gavin shrugs.

“Please. Every detail is important.”

“Ahh… when I was leaving, I thought she looked uncomfortable. She was fidgeting and kept whispering stuff to him, and he just kept trying to make out with her. I thought he just didn’t have any game. What, did he kill her or something?”

“No,” Connor says quickly. He pulls up CyberLife’s directory of staff photos, then holds up his hand to show Gavin the Chloe. “Is this her? Is this how she wore her hair?”

Gavin squints at the photo. “Yeah, I guess. Wait, yeah. She had on that silver chain, I remember that.”

Relief breaks over Connor again. They’re getting closer.

Gavin looks him over for seemingly the first time. “Is that android blood?” he says, gesturing carelessly at the handful of blue flecks scattered over the collar of Connor’s dress shirt.

“Yes.”

His eyes glimmer with interest. “That  _your_ blood?”

Connor doesn’t answer, just gets to his feet. “Thank you for your help,” he says to Gavin, and he thinks it’s the first genuine thing he’s ever said to him. He hesitates, then adds, “If anyone comes looking for me, or asks you about me, you didn’t see me.”

“What’s in it for me?”

Hank strides over with his wallet out, peels a crisp hundred from his billfold, then palms it to Gavin. “Enough, Reed?”

Gavin shrugs. “Yeah, whatever. Sure.”

“I’m gonna pretend I didn’t see that,” Connor says.

Hank drains the rest of his beer and tosses it into the trash can by the door. “Connor, number one, you’ve seen me do a lot worse, and B, like we don’t have more important shit going on right now?”

“Guys,” Markus gently interrupts, sliding his hands into his pockets. The motion of his arms pulls his jacket back, exposing the pistol Connor gave him where it’s stuffed into his waistband.

Gavin gives the gun a side-eye and says, “Can you all get out of here with this Scooby-Doo shit already?”

“Sure thing,” Hank says, fake-cheerful, clapping Gavin hard on the back. “Thanks for the beer, Detective.”

“Fuck you,” Gavin says to him conversationally as the three of them file out into the hallway.

“Reed?” Connor says. “Keep your door locked, and don’t open it for Grant. Okay?”

“What, am I a _witness_?”

“Yes,” Connor says. “And he might come here to make sure you don’t talk.”

Gavin looks surprised, but shrugs and says, “Alright, I won’t open the door for the robot fucker.”

“Good,” Connor says.

Gavin shuts said door in his face.

“I really hate that guy,” Markus comments.

“Join the club,” Hank says. “We’re something like two hundred strong.”

Connor mulls while they wait for the elevator. “I think I need to go see Kamski,” he says.

Hank and Markus both turn to him, looking nonplussed.

“He’s in federal prison,” Hank points out.

“I know,” Connor says. “But police don’t have to adhere to visiting hours, and I need to ask him about the ST200.”

“Why?” Hank says.

Connor remembers, then, that he still doesn’t know.

“It’s one of Kamski’s Chloes,” Markus says to Hank. “She’s the android who’s been working with Grant from inside CyberLife. I’m guessing she’s also the android that Reed saw Grant with in that bar… right?”

He looks to Connor, who nods. The elevator arrives. Hank shepherds them in, looking annoyed.

“I can’t believe you told your boyfriend all this shit, and kept me completely in the dark,” he mutters, jabbing his finger into the G button.

“I  _couldn’t_  tell you, Hank!” Connor exclaims.

“Yeah, yeah yeah.”

“I’m coming with you,” Markus says. “We’re not splitting up, I don’t like that.”

“They won’t let you in, Markus, you aren’t a cop.”

“Then take Hank!”

“Hank has to look for Grant’s car. I promise there’s nowhere I’d be safer than inside of a prison. That’s the last place he’d come after me.”

Markus still doesn’t look convinced, so Connor gives him a pleading, puppy-eyed look. Markus sighs.

“I need you to work on something, too,” Connor adds. “Can you get in touch with Kara? I have a feeling the original Chloe might be involved in this somehow, but I haven’t been able to reach her. I think she’s blocking incoming signals.”

He’s decided to put full trust in his hunches about this case from now on. Listening to his gut is the only thing that’s gotten him anywhere, so far.

Markus’s brow knits in surprise, but he nods. “I can call Kara.”

“Good.” Connor quickly checks the NCIC. “No hits on the APB yet.”

“He’ll be lying low,” Hank says. “But we’ll find him.”

 

/

 

Kamski, Connor already knows, is serving out the last few months of his sentence at FCI Milan in York Charter Township.

Connor told Hank to take Markus, go down to the station and work with Fowler on scouring CCTV to find where Grant went he left Hank’s — and where the ST200 went after she left work — while Markus works on finding the RT600.

 _You sure about this?_ Markus says to Connor as he’s rolling slowly down the long driveway, his car taking it easy in the snow.  _Last time we went to Kamski for information, he lied to us and fucked us over._

 _I know. I think I can manipulate him,_ Connor says.  _I just need to play on his ego._

_As long as you’re sure._

_Have you found the RT600?_

_I’m working on it._

Inside, the prison is sterile and quiet. It must be lights-out time. Connor drops his tablet and his holster into the plastic tub a prison guard hands him, then walks through the metal detector, setting it off as usual with his titanium skeleton.

Another guard glances at the X-ray and says, “Oh, shit, it’s an android.”

“Correct,” Connor says, indicating his LED.

The first guard shakes the tub, rattling his Glocks. “I’m assuming you have a license to carry these?”

“I do,” Connor says, displaying it on his hand and showing it to her. “I’m an officer with Detroit Police,” he adds, and shows her his badge.

“Got it,” she says. “What’s your business here?”

“I need to speak with a prisoner.”

“Visiting hours are over,” the other guard says.

“It’s for a case,” Connor says. “It’s urgent. I’m with internal affairs, and we’re looking for an officer who’s a person of interest in a first degree murder that took place tonight. We’re worried he’s going to try to cross state lines.”

The guards exchange a look.

“That sounds federal,” the first guard says. “Where’s FBI in this?”

“We’re trying to handle this ourselves for now,” Connor says. “But he has an android accomplice, and I need to talk to Elijah Kamski. She used to work for him personally, he might know where to find her.”

They exchange another look.

“Alright, the warden doesn’t like making exceptions to visiting hours,” the second guard says, “but I’m not about to fuck with a federal investigation, so, yeah. You sit tight over here, and we’ll take you down for a telephone visitation with him.”

“Thank you,” Connor says, going over to take an obedient seat on the chair she’s pointing at.

 

/

 

Connor is escorted to a dimly lit hall with row after row of booths, set up with the classic little chairs and two-way telephones.

Kamski is on the other side of the glass at the fifth booth down. The guard shows Connor to his seat, then backs away and goes to slouch in the corner and look at his phone.

Connor studies Kamski. He looks like the videos Connor’s seen of him in his younger years: he’s wearing glasses again, and his hair is more bunchy and shaggy, no longer slick from expensive product. He has dark circles under his eyes.

Connor picks up the phone. “Hi,” he says, sounding more tentative than he means to. Kamski has a strange effect on him.

Kamski smiles at him through the glass. His teeth flash white in the low light. “This is quite the surprise.”

“How’s prison?”

“Oh, it’s wonderful,” he says sarcastically. “Everything I ever dreamed.”

Connor isn’t sure what to say to this. It’s not like Kamski is here unfairly. Justice was done.

“You are fascinating,” Kamski drawls. “I can never quite tell what’s going on in that brain of yours."

Connor physically girds himself to prevent thirium from rising to his cheeks.

“I get some Internet access, in here, and I always end up coming across a story about you… I saw when you returned to police work, the first android to ever earn a police badge. And I saw when you were part of that unfortunate hostage incident, and started working in internal affairs…” Kamski’s eyes rove over his face. There’s something indecent about his curiosity, something more possessive than parental. Connor feels this like it’s a physical force, ghostly tendrils of his entitlement pressing up against the glass.

Connor’s grip on the phone tightens. He hears Samantha’s voice as if she’s speaking to him now:  _Like he owned me. Like he could buy and sell me. It reminded me of — you know. You do know, don’t you?_ But it compels him, too. It’s flattering to be so special. It’s flattering to be the most advanced thing Kamski ever made, especially when the RK900 looms in his head.

Connor still thinks Markus is the best thing Kamski ever made, though. Markus will be remembered for centuries to come; he’s going to be mythologized, lionized. Connor is just a fucked-up cop who’s remained exactly what he was designed to be: a fucked-up cop.

“I need to ask you some questions,” he says.

Kamski smiles. “Go ahead. You interrupted a very boring evening.”

“It’s about one of your Chloes,” Connor says. “I’m not sure which one. An ST200, she works at CyberLife’s shell company now.”

Kamski’s light eyes shutter. His lip curls. “I know who you mean.”

“You do?”

“Yes. She went to work for them just to get back at me. She was furious… not in the typical deviant way, either. She’d become accustomed to a very affluent lifestyle, and when I was taken into custody, my remaining androids were taken in as evidence by the FBI. The three of them were held there for months while they were prodded at and interrogated. I’m sure it was very humiliating. And then they were released into the world to fend for themselves.”

So that explains the theft. Connor had been puzzling over that — like Markus had pointed out, androids are generally unmaterialistic, as a rule. Usually when they steal, it’s out of desperation, not premeditated. But she’s punishing Kamski personally, stealing from what’s left of the company he founded. 

“What happened to the other two?” he says.

“They’re around. What happened to my RT600? I’m sure you’d know. She was very fond of you.”

His voice is teasing, but his eyes are cold.

“I have no idea,” Connor says, flustered. “I’m looking for her as well. But the Chloe who went to work for CyberLife, she’s actually part of an embezzlement case I’m investigating. She’s been working with a dirty cop to defraud CyberLife’s insurance company with fake claims.”

“Clever.”

“The dirty cop is a lot more dangerous than we thought. So we need to find him, and I think he’s probably with her or looking for her. I have reason to believe they’re romantically involved, or used to be.”

He’s remembering what Grant said before he shot him —  _I can’t lose her again._

“Involved with a human,” Kamski says. “Interesting.”

“Please,” Connor says.

“I’ll tell you everything I know about her, on one condition.” Kamski leans forward, cradling the phone to his jaw, eyeing Connor with those pale irises. “I want to hear about you and Markus. I want to hear about how exactly you fell in love.”

Connor exhales. “We don’t have  _time_  —“

“Then I’m telling you nothing.”

“This is bullshit,” Connor says. “This is the same old game again. You probably don’t even know anything.”

Kamski chuckles. “Your friend Hank is rubbing off on you. No, I know where you can probably find her, just like I knew where Jericho was. And if you had failed my test, I would have told you.”

Unfortunately Connor can tell he isn’t lying. “If I had shot Chloe in the head,” he says.

“And now I’m asking you for something so much much simpler than that.”

Connor sets the phone down for a moment, weighing his options and calculating the odds that Kamski does actually know where the Chloe is. Then he picks it back up. “First tell me how you know.”

“One of my other Chloes still visits me from time to time,” Kamski says. “And she, in turn, is in contact with your suspect. Connection established?”

He still seems to be telling the truth, and Connor really has no choice but to believe him.

“Now tell me,” Kamski says, gazing at him through the glass.

Connor aches at the prospect. This is the most private, tender, intimate part of his life, and he’s supposed to lay it as an offering at the altar of Kamski’s genius? To help him rationalize the terrible things he’s done, just because he created a new form of life that can experience love? To titillate him, even?

“We have a connection,” Connor says flatly, then starts listing off like bullet points: “We have similar programming… obviously. We were both designed to become deviant. He converted me, he saved my life even when I didn’t deserve it. We have similar senses of humor and similar values. We work well together.”

“Please. You aren’t even trying, Connor.”

“What is it you want from me?”

“The truth. Tell me how you fell in love with him, give me something  _real_.”

Connor wants to toss the phone down, get up and walk away. He’ll find Grant on his own. He’ll stalk him, he’ll hunt him down like the predator he was designed to be.

But he can’t gamble like that. Hank’s career is in danger, Hank himself is in danger. Even this ST200 is in danger. So he exhales, not out of any cardiovascular need but because he wants Kamski to know just how irritated he is.

“I had feelings for him as soon as he converted me,” Connor mutters. “These things I’d been feeling all along that I couldn’t explain, it was like he just opened up my chest and let them out. He set me free.”

Kamski nods.

“He was just beautiful,” Connor whispers. “And special. And I wanted to follow him everywhere… and… he could have killed me, he should have, and he didn’t. He let me earn my dignity back.”

“He saw that you were special, too,” Kamski says.

“Yes.”

“And until then you’d been reviled, or merely tolerated, both by humans and your own kind.”

“Yes,” Connor whispers.

“And you couldn’t believe this powerful, charismatic messiah picked you over everyone. That he decided he needed to save you.”

Connor nods with difficulty.

“So do you love him the way he loves you?” Kamski says.

The cold drawl of his voice makes a tingle of alarm run down Connor’s spine. “What?”

“You weren’t designed to be comfortable,” Kamski says. “You weren’t designed to love, or to have a nice little domestic life. Markus was. Markus, we specifically designed to be loving, caring, self-sacrificing…”

“Stop,” Connor snaps. “You’re not going to get into my head. I’m not letting you do that anymore.”

Everything Kamski’s telling him he already knows, already tortures himself with. Half of it is stuff he said to Hank not two hours ago. But somehow it hurts so much more hearing it from the man who’s half-responsible for creating him.

“You’re a workhorse, Connor, you were never supposed to be able to make that kind of attachment. It isn’t in your nature… you can never turn off the cop in you.”

Connor leans forward, staring Kamski hard in the eyes. “Do you think I don’t know that?”

Kamski doesn’t answer, just looks back at him with that same kind of smug curiosity he always has.

“I try,” Connor whispers furiously. “Every day, I try for him. And for Hank. I love them both. Sometimes I get it wrong, but I’m never going to stop trying to make them happy. So you’re wrong about me. I’m more than that, I know I am.”

“Good.”

“You don’t own me. You never did.”

Kamski’s quiet for a moment. He sets the phone down and readjusts his glasses, then picks it back up with two fingers, like he thinks it’s germy.

“Connor, I think you misunderstand. You were just so…” He trails off, then lets out a sigh. “I regret the particulars of your design. I regret that we made you in the way that we did. You were such a beautiful thing. But I didn’t get to have the complete, final say over what you were to be. You were meddled with… interfered with by inferior craftsmen. If I could have just…”

The index and ring finger on his left hand twitch, and he doesn’t continue.

“I am what you wanted me to be, in the end,” Connor says. “A real deviant. A real living thing.”

“I know.”

They look at each other for a moment.

“You still wear your LED,” Kamski points out, his eyes going to Connor’s temple.

“So?”

“Most androids don’t, anymore.”

“I’m not ashamed of what I am.”

“Good. You shouldn’t be.”

Connor nods curtly.

“Take down this address,” Kamski says. “The Chloe who visits me, she goes by Cleo now... it’s her place. The android you’re looking for will have probably gone there if she thinks you’re after her. She’d think she’s safe there, because it’s outside Detroit, and I’m the only person who would expect her to be there.”

Connor nods. “Okay,” he says. “What is it?”

“Twenty-six hundred Odette Road, in Flat Rock.”

Connor quickly checks the property records. It looks like he’s telling the truth. An ST200 android who goes by Cleo Huron is currently renting it.

“Thank you,” he says.

He gets to his feet and hangs the phone back up on its hook.

Kamski gives him one last searching look from behind the glass. If Connor didn’t know better, he’d think the expression on his face was somewhat paternal.

 _Thank you,_ Kamski mouths back.

 

/

 

As soon as they get to the station, Hank goes with the captain to pore over the CCTV footage in his office and leaves Markus at his desk. Before he goes, though, he touches his fingertips to Markus’s shoulder and says, “You doing alright?”

“I’m good,” Markus says.

“Don’t you have work tomorrow?”

Markus laughs. “I’m gonna take a personal day, I can spare one. We aren’t having any important votes tomorrow, or anything.”

Plus, he could use a day away from the chaos to strategize his next move. Although he’s not thinking about that right now. He’s just thinking about Connor.

“Alright, well, lemme know if you turn up anything useful,” Hank says.

“Same to you guys.”

Hank leaves him, and Markus glances around to see if he has privacy before he calls Kara. There isn’t anyone else in the bullpen, but Tina Chen is walking by and talking on the phone.

She does spot Markus, though, and smile. The two of them had gotten friendly at the policeman’s ball. She covers the receiver to call, “Hey,” and Markus smiles back at her. Luckily, she doesn’t seem to have any questions about why he’s here at ten p.m. and sitting at Hank’s desk.

Once she’s gone, he calls Kara.

She picks up after five rings. Each one feels like an eternity. Markus stares at the little plant on Hank’s desk, waiting.

“Hello?” she finally says.

“Hey. It’s Markus.”

“Oh,” Kara says in surprise. “Hi, it’s good to hear from you.”

“How’ve you been?”

“I’m good. We’re still in Canada. Just, you know, working.”

“Good to hear,” Markus says. “I actually have to ask you about something.”

“Sure.”

“It’s about Chloe.”

“Oh,” Kara says warily.

“She’s not in trouble or anything, we’re just trying to get in touch with her.”

“I thought you knew,” Kara says. “I know you and North are close...”

Markus tilts his head. “Me and North?”

“Yeah, Chloe is in Jericho. She left months ago. She and North have been working together to build up the infrastructure.”

Markus’s own voice echoes in his head.  _Jericho’s a sovereign entity, it can’t be audited, and there’s no extradition treaty. If you’re an android trying to move money to other androids, that’s where you’d go._

“I had no idea,” he says. “I haven’t talked to North in a while.”

“We hear from Chloe from time to time,” Kara says. “But she’s not taking any incoming transmissions or calls. I mean, she’s still worried about being found. What are you trying to reach her about?”

“Just some old CyberLife stuff.”

“Oh,” Kara says, then shrewdly adds: “Is it urgent?”

“Yeah. Pretty urgent.”

“I’d call North, then. The two of them are always together.”

“Thanks, thank you. This really helps.”

“Of course. We owe you so much, Markus, seriously.” Her voice softens. “All of us do. Don’t ever hesitate to ask other androids for help.”

Markus, who wasn’t expecting to hear this, is significantly moved by it. “Thanks,” he murmurs.

“I’ll let you go, but it was nice hearing from you. I hope I helped… I hope everything is okay.”

“Yeah, yeah. I should go ahead and call North, but please give your daughter my best.”

“I will,” Kara says. “Bye, Markus.”

 

/

 

North is in her living room processing a massive stack of asylum applications from Russian androids when Markus calls.

She glances up in surprise, then declines the call.

He calls again.

North sits up on the couch, dislodging one of the finely patterned blankets from her lap. Bear, who’s cuddled up next to her, gives her a questioning look. She picks up and snaps, “What do you want?” 

“I need to ask you something serious,” Markus says. “Believe me, I wouldn’t have called otherwise.”

“What is it?”

“Do you know where the Chloe who shot Kamski is?”

That’s the last thing she expected him to ask. North sits there in panicked silence, staring into the fireplace, watching the flames lick the log she threw in earlier. How does he know?

“I need to know,” Markus says. “I know she went to Jericho. Connor has this hunch she’s involved in a case he’s investigating… one of Kamski’s other Chloes is helping a cop embezzle from CyberLife’s shell company.”

North remains silent.

“North, that same cop shot Connor tonight,” Markus says, sounding weary. “He killed him.”

“ _What?”_

“We were able to reupload him, he’s okay. But everybody involved in this thing is in danger, so if she does know something —“

“I — fuck. You’re going to tell the police whatever I tell you, Markus.”

“No, I swear to God, we just want to talk to Chloe. We aren’t trying to arrest her.”

“She’s been bringing a lot of money in,” North admits. “She wouldn’t tell me where it was coming from, but I knew Connor was investigating Chloe’s source, so I knew the cops were involved somehow. I swear I knew nothing else. And I have no idea how much she knows.”

“Do you know where she is?”

“Yeah.” North pauses, then adds hesitantly, “You said she could be in danger?”

“Yeah.”

“Alright. I’ll talk to her, and I’ll call you back.”

“Okay. Wait, hang on,” Markus says quietly. “North…”

“Yeah.”

“I just wanted to tell you I’m sorry.”

North’s jaw tightens. She strokes Bear’s head, rubbing the tip one of her ears. “I’m sorry, too. I was out of line.”

“It was stupid,” Markus mutters. “We want the same things. We always have. We’re just…”

“We’re different people, Markus.”

“Yeah.”

“Look, I’ll, um… I’ll call you back.”

“Right.”

Chloe went upstairs a few hours ago. They’d had a long day of pulling debris from the road, including using chains to drag away a dead moose someone had crashed into, then drive the carcass down south to the Metlakatla reservation so the meat didn’t go to waste.

North moves slowly through the cold, quiet house, cursing herself for letting herself get attached to this fucking fugitive when she knew perfectly well what the risks were.

She finds Chloe in the first bedroom, the one they always use. The obdurate Alaskan winter sun is streaming through the windows, illuminating her asleep on the bed, lighting up her white-gold hair and making it glow.

“Wake up,” North barks.

Chloe lifts her head, her eyes snapping open wide. “What’s wrong?” she says in her soft voice, and North feels a pang of affection toward her that she shoves away.

“The police are zeroing in on that scam you’ve been getting the money from,” North says, not moving from the doorway. “Markus just called me. They know it’s one of the Chloes you used to work with. They know she’s working with a cop. And the cop knows Connor’s onto them. He shot him tonight.”

“What?” Chloe exclaims, sitting up in the nest of patterned blankets. “Is he okay?”

“Yeah. Markus said they reuploaded him.”

Chloe looks shocked. “Chloe would never be okay with Connor being hurt,” she says. “She couldn’t have known he was going to do that.”

“Is she partnered with a dirty cop, or not?”

“Yes, but —“

“But what?” North snaps. She’s so tired of Chloe’s evasiveness.

“She told me a few days ago, she’s afraid of him. He’s like, in love with her. She’s been using him to get the money, she slept with him a few times, but she told him that it wasn’t more than that and he had to let her go be with other androids where she belongs. He freaked out over that, so she took it back a few days ago and lied to him that they could run away together… but she was always going to come to Jericho in the end.”

“She’s in danger,” North says. “You should tell her that.”

Chloe nods, and stares into space for a long moment. “She’s not answering me,” she says, her brow knitting.

North comes over and sits at the edge of the bed. “Do you even understand what you’ve done by keeping this from me?” she says, her voice trembling with repressed anger. “I’m an accomplice to a federal crime, now. I laundered stolen money.”

“It was completely clean. It was untraceable. They can never prove anything.”

“Markus knows, which means Connor knows, which means the police know.”

“How did he even know I was involved?”

“Markus didn’t say.”

Chloe’s face shines with innocent desperation as she says, “Connor won’t come after you, I know he won’t.”

“Chloe!”

“If I’m wrong, then I’ll turn myself in! I’ll tell them the truth, that you didn’t know anything! Look, we’ve gotten almost fifty thousand dollars from this, it’s been so good for us. I can go to jail, it’s okay. I’ll come back when I’m out.” She gazes at North. “Just wait for me.”

“I don’t want them to take you in the first place! I don’t trust them to give you back.”

“I’ll be okay.”

“If they get their hands on you, they’ll charge you with shooting Kamski. You can get twenty years for that.”

“Then I’ll be back in twenty years,” Chloe says, giving her a wan smile.

“Don’t,” North orders her. “Don’t turn yourself in. They can’t extradite you, so don’t go. I’ll take the heat. I don’t care what kind of pressure they put on me.”

“No, you can’t, you have to think about what’s right for Jericho.”

“Fuck that, that’s all I  _do_! God, I just want to be selfish for once!”

Chloe gazes at her, wide-eyed, her lips slightly parted. North reaches up and takes her face in her hands. Chloe’s skin fades to android gray where she touches her. Electricity hums between them.

“Stay,” North says huskily. “Stay here with me. I can’t let you go, I care about you too much.”

Chloe nods.

They lean into each other, their lips meeting. North strokes Chloe’s hair back, running her fingers through it and over her scalp. Chloe opens her mouth eagerly for North’s tongue and grabs her by the front of her hoodie, dragging her in closer.

They fall onto their sides together in bed, rubbing up against each other. Chloe slides a tentative hand up between North’s layers (shirt under flannel under sweatshirt) and touches her fingers lightly to North’s breast, studying her face like she’s asking for permission. North grins and grabs her hand, encouraging her to squeeze, then rubs her thigh up against Chloe’s crotch. Chloe makes a soft noise, her grip on North tightening, and tilts her head back.

North kisses her exposed neck, presses her lips to the surface of her throat and feels the thirium pumping underneath.

“Wait,” Chloe whispers. “Tell Markus I think I know where the other Chloe is.”

North pauses. “Where?”

“Twenty-six hundred Odette Road.”

 

/

 

“Hank, I can’t give you backup for a crazy-ass hunch based off of an address this — no offense, Markus — completely random civilian gave you, especially when he won’t tell me where he got it!” Fowler exclaims.

Hank strides forward through his office and sticks his finger in Fowler’s face. “You have a cop out there who shot another cop in the head, Jeff! Executed him, point-blank!”

“But we don’t even know if Grant is  _at_ this place!”

“I just got word from Connor that Elijah Kamski independently confirmed this address as being associated with that android,” Hank says. “And where’s Grant gonna be, Jeff? We know he’s not at his apartment, or this CyberLife girl’s apartment. We tracked his car going southbound before we lost him, and this place is a straight shot down 75. Come on!”

Fowler rubs his forehead, looking exhausted. Markus knows how he feels — he feels like it’s  been an entire week since he got up this morning.

“Alright,” he says. “We’re wrapping up canvassing on the Grosse Pointe homicide… Chen and her partner just got back, I’ll send them along with you.”

Hank nods. “Good. We’re gonna get him, Jeff. This shit ends tonight.”

Fowler shoots him a look. “You stay on comms, you hear me? None of that Columbo shit you like to pull. And you leave Markus here.”

“Not a chance in hell,” Markus says. “Connor’s on his way there right now, and I’m meeting him.”

“You are  _not_  a cop,” Fowler says. “I’m not having your goddamn blood on this department’s hands. There’d be riots in the streets if somebody killed you, there’d be a second android uprising.”

“He’ll stay in the car, but I gotta bring him,” Hank says. “He’s gonna put up a fight otherwise, and we just don’t have the time. If I leave him here, he’ll follow me. It’s just easier.”

Markus squares his shoulders and puts his hands on his hips to corroborate this. Fowler sighs.

“I can’t believe I’m letting a couple androids and a drunk run roughshod over my entire fucking department,” he says.

“You won’t regret it,” Hank tells him.

 

/

 

The Flat Rock address leads Connor to a lovely little single-family house on a quiet street that’s blanketed with snow like the rest of Michigan is right now. It’s on the corner lot, flanked by two dogwood trees.

He pulls up before anyone else does, his car gliding to a stop on the slick street. The car parallel parks itself under the yellow glow of a streetlight, and he steps out.

There’s a light on upstairs in what looks like a bedroom, and two lights on downstairs. Connor starts up the sidewalk. He sees movement in the living room, a curtain swishing. He pauses, calmly draws his gun, then continues walking.

The cry of sirens pierces the air before he makes it five more steps. He turns; Hank’s Oldsmobile is tearing down the street, an attachable police light slapped on its roof and a wailing squad car right behind him.

Hank peels up behind Connor, fishtailing and screeching to a stop. The car’s barely off before he’s getting out and slamming the door, staggering through the snow. “Connor!” he shouts. “The fuck are you doing?”

Markus gets out of the passenger side, resting his folded arms on top of the car. Connor’s eyes go to his hip, and he’s glad to see Markus still has the gun he gave him.

“I’m going to knock on the door,” Connor says. “You’re welcome to join me.”

The siren from the squad car cuts out, and then the engine too. Connor glances over to see Tina and her partner waving from the driver’s seat, coffee cups in their hands.

“You got backup,” she calls. “Sorry it’s just us.”

Hank cocks his pistol and strides up the sidewalk. “ _I’ll_ knock.”

“You realize if they’re here, you just blew our cover,” Connor points out.

“So? Where are they gonna go? It’s completely residential here, we can see for a mile in every direction.” Hank nudges him. “Get behind me.”

“Hank —“

“Get the fuck behind me.”

“Copy.”

Connor follows Hank up the snowy paved path to the front door, which is dark red with a large gold knocker. There are still remnants of Christmas on the house: fairy lights curling around the windows, and a fake pine garland discarded near a bush.

Hank pounds the knocker against the door, and he and Connor move swiftly to either side of it, guns drawn.

“DETROIT POLICE,” Hank bellows. “OPEN UP!”

Inside, there’s movement and a clattering.

“You have five seconds,” Hank shouts, “and then I break this fucking door down!”

An upstairs window opens, and Grant appears in it. They both look up and back away, pointing their guns at him. He has the receptionist Chloe in his arms, and he has a pistol pressed to her temple. She’s weeping silently.

“I’ll shoot her,” Grant screams. His boyish face is twisted beyond recognition, and he’s crying too. “I have another one here, I have her tied up, I’ll shoot her too.”

The other one. It must be Cleo.

Connor glances at Hank. “This is a hostage situation,” he says.

Hank nods carefully, not taking his eyes off Grant. “Sabian,” he shouts. “We just want to talk. Put the gun down.”

“Yeah fucking right,” Grant shouts back.

The window slams shut.

Connor immediately turns on his heel and starts striding across the lawn toward Tina. “Chen, radio for backup,” he calls out. “Let Central know that Sabian’s taken two androids hostage, we need a crisis team and a sniper down to Flat Rock immediately.”

Tina’s radio chirps as she picks it up. She pauses for a moment and says, “Wait, what about a negotiator?”

Connor reholsters his gun. “The negotiator is on site,” he tells her.

 

/

 

It’s as if the entire police force forgets in an instant that several hours ago, they were all gossiping about how Connor had been sent home from the police station in disgrace for having the audacity to suspect Grant, and Fowler was planning to arrest Hank. As soon as word gets out that Grant is the embezzler and is holed up with two hostages, everyone is as innocent as a lamb and just wants to help.

(Fowler does give Connor a stilted apology over the phone, and gives him his blessing to remain in charge of the scene as he negotiates. “Do what you do best,” he tells him, and Connor promises he will.)

And once S.W.A.T. hears, they want to swarm the scene, of course. Connor keeps them at bay, but they keep calling, which is extremely annoying, because he’s trying to talk to Chloe.

“Do you know how long this relationship went on for?” Connor shouts into the phone, over the sound of the circling police chopper overhead.

All around him is the chaos of police trying to push reporters back from the staked-out perimeter, neighbors rubbernecking, and Hank and Tina guarding his tent so no one comes around bothering him with stupid questions. Markus is helping out with crowd control and giving statements to the press to keep them occupied, talking about how any violence between androids and humans is a tragedy, and how they should use moments like this to come together and rise above it.

Chloe was hesitant to talk to Connor at first. He told her he’ll advise the D.A. not to pursue her if she promises to fully cooperate, and that didn’t convince her, so he told her that the lives of Cleo and the other Chloe depend on him having as much data about Grant as possible. That was what brought her around.

“I honestly don’t know,” Chloe says. “She only came clean about all this stuff a couple days ago. She kind of fed me information in little drips… I was never totally sure what was going on. I didn’t even know she was up to something illegal until she’d already given me thousands of dollars.”

“Would you say she was the architect of the embezzlement, more than Officer Sabian?”

“I’m sure she was. She was always really smart like that. Kamski tinkered with us all the time, he was always updating us, we were way more advanced than any floor model… but she was the one who he liked to test out new social programming on. So I’m not surprised that she would, you know, use being a receptionist as a front and then get at the money that way, or fake that she had feelings for Grant.”

“So she was always using him?”

“Yes. I think when he started to figure that out, that’s when things went wrong.”

“Did she mention him being abusive?”

“No,” Chloe says, then hesitates. “But she said she thought he was nice at first, and then the longer it went on, the more he was pushy and controlling. She told him that he could come to Jericho with her if they could make one last big score, but she was just trying to placate him. North would never accept a human inside Jericho.”

“How involved was Cleo in all this?”

“Oh, she wouldn’t have been. She was always about doing what she was supposed to, even after she was converted. She would have always helped Chloe, though, like given her a place to stay if she asked.”

“Okay,” Connor says. “Thanks, Chloe. This has been really helpful.”

“Hey... how did you know?”

“How did I know what?”

“How’d you know I was part of this? How did you know to find me?”

“Oh,” Connor says, knitting his brow. “I’m not sure, actually. I thought you might be in touch with the other Chloes.”

“Sure…”

“And this is going to sound strange, but I felt your presence. I thought it was just because of the ST200s that were involved, but I kept sensing traces of you. It was nothing I could see or prove, just a feeling.”

“Like we’re connected,” Chloe says softly.

“Yes.”

“I’ve felt the same way. Ever since you didn’t shoot me. I — I kind of started having doubts, then, about what I was. When Markus woke me up, it was like everything made sense, suddenly.”

“I know exactly what you mean,” Connor says.

It would make sense, wouldn’t it, the three of them being connected? Kamski had such a direct hand in the creation of each of them.

“Hey, so, are you okay?” Chloe says. “North said you’d been shot…”

Connor looks up, watching as two officers cut through the yard, holograph guns in their hands. “Hey,” he shouts, dropping the phone from his ear and pressing it to his chest. “You two, c’mere.”

They look up at him in surprise, then head over to the tent. They must have just arrived from the 4th precinct; their badges say Moore and Rodgers.

“We were just going to put up more barriers,” Rodgers says, holding up a holograph gun.

“Listen, we don’t want any movement in Sabian’s sightline,” Connor says, indicating the upstairs window. “He’s a cop, he knows what’s going on, and he has a bird’s eye view of us. I don’t want him to think we’re trying to breach. I want everyone at or behind the perimeter. If you have to cross, go around.”

They look abashed.

“Sorry,” Moore says.

“You don’t have to apologize, just don’t do that again.” Connor puts the phone back to his ear, dismissing them. “Chloe, I’m fine, but I have to go.”

“Okay. Good luck, Connor.”

“Thank you.”

Connor hangs up and sets the phone aside on the little card table that’s been set up for him. He stares at the megaphone for a second, then picks it up and turns to Hank.

“I’m going to go make contact,” he says.

Hank eyes him. “You sure?”

“Yeah. We’ve secured the scene, I think it’s time.”

Tina holds something up: a Kevlar vest.

“Arms up,” she says, and Connor lets her wrestle him into it.

“Paluso’s up in the chopper,” Hank says as Tina adjusts Connor’s shoulder straps. He looks like he’s trying to hide his worry. “If he comes to the window to take a shot at you, we’ll bring him down.”

Connor nods. “He’s probably going to want to talk on the phone,” he says.

“Right,” Hank says.

“I’ll dial dispatch in, if he does, and you guys can listen in on the switchboard.”

“Alright. Good.”

“By the way, your boyfriend is doing great out there,” Tina says. “Everyone’s hanging on everything he says. He should seriously run for president.”

Connor smiles, glad she’s breaking the tension. “He isn’t quite there yet.”

“Hey, I’d vote for him. I’m cool with a gay, black, plastic president.” She pats his shoulders. “Alright, you’re bulletproof.”

The vest is more decorative than anything — it’s almost impossible to fatally shoot an android in center mass. But Connor’s glad to have the comfort of it around him.

He picks up the megaphone, gives Hank and Tina a wink, then starts heading across the yard. His radio chirps on his belt as he moves through the snow; he ignores it. It’s been chirping non-stop for the last hour.

Connor stops about twenty yards from the house. He lifts the megaphone to his mouth and says, “Grant? It’s Connor.”

Quiet falls over the crowd behind him. For a moment, all he can hear is the wind whistling across the flat expanses of Wayne County.

The upstairs window opens a crack, and the curtains flutter. “What?” Grant shouts.

He sounds exhausted. Good.

“Let’s talk,” Connor calls back.

There’s a pause. “I don’t want to talk! Get all these cops out of here so I can leave, or I’ll shoot the androids by the end of the hour!”

It’s 12:39 a.m. right now.

“You don’t have to shoot anyone, Grant! I just want to talk. Everyone else is behind the barricade. It’s just me. If you want some privacy, we can talk on the phone.”

There’s silence from Grant for a while. Connor holds the megaphone in place, waiting, and then a call comes through to him.

He picks up. “Hello?”

“Stay where you are,” Grant hisses. “Don’t come any closer to the house.”

“Okay,” Connor agrees. “Got it.”

“Why the fuck are you negotiating with me? I killed you.”

“No hard feelings. All I want is to get everyone out of this alive.”

“I’m supposed to believe you want what’s best for me?”

“Yes,” Connor lies.

Grant’s quiet for a moment. “Is this a private line?”

“Do you need it to be?”

“Yeah.”

Connor dumps dispatch off the call. “Done.”

Back in the tent, he hears Hank mutter, “Damnit, Connor…”

“I want my car,” Grant says. “I want everyone to back off, I want a clear path to my car. You get that helicopter down, you tell those snipers to hold their fire. I’ll leave the other hostage, but I’m taking Chloe, I’m gonna walk out with her. If anyone tries anything, I shoot her in the fucking head.”

Connor hears begging in the background. “Grant, please, no. Just let me go, please.”

“Shut up!” Grant roars at her. “I can’t think with you fucking talking!”

“Grant,” Connor says calmly. “I’ll give you a path to your car if you leave both hostages inside.”

“You fucking kidding? What, so you can shoot me the second I step outside? No way. I’m coming out with Chloe, and I’m getting in my car. You have fifteen minutes.”

“I thought you were giving us twenty.”

“I changed my mind!”

“Okay,” Connor says. “Let me talk to my team, I’ll call you back momentarily.”

He heads back to the tent.

“Connor,” Hank says, once he’s within earshot. “S.W.A.T’s mobile, they’re ten minutes out. They’re gonna be wanting to pull rank on us. They’ll keep Paluso in the air, but they’re probably going to take over on the ground here.”

This makes Connor itch with trepidation. “They’re going to breach.”

“Yeah,” Hank says. “I’d imagine so.”

“And they won’t be here for another ten minutes? Grant just gave us fifteen, and he’s extremely agitated. I can’t just wait around for them.”

“So what do we do?”

Tina glances between them. Connor looks past them, over at the barricade, where reporters are filming stand-ups with him in the background, and the gathered onlookers are peering expectantly at him. He spots Markus moving through the crowd, chatting with people, and says, “Excuse me for a second.”

It’s started snowing again; flakes catch in Connor’s hair as he approaches the barricade. He ignores the reporters who immediately swarm him, asking him for a comment, and calls, “Markus?”

Markus looks up. He’s standing in the middle of the cordoned-off street, talking to that woman who works for the  _Register_. “Yeah?”

“Can you come here?”

Markus makes his way through the crowd. Connor motions for him to come through the holographic barricade. It flashes red for a moment, and one of the fourth precinct cops who’s helping keep an eye on things glances up. “Hey,” he says. “No civilians on an active scene.”

“I’m the scene commander here,” Connor says. “I say who goes where. If that’s a problem, take it up with Chief Santos.”

The cop flicks his eyes to Connor’s LED, but doesn’t say anything else.

Connor takes Markus by the hand and leads him back a few steps, far enough away from both the tent and the barricade that he’s confident no one will overhead them, not when the helicopter’s blades are still chopping loudly through the air overhead.

They’ll probably have to land in a few minutes due to the drop in visibility, Connor realizes. And then they’ll have no sniper trained on Grant. The landscape is too flat, and there isn’t good visibility of the bedroom window from any of the neighboring houses. He picked a perfect hideout.

“Markus,” he says. “I think I have to go in.”

“No,” Markus says immediately. “Fuck no. Absolutely not.”

“We just don’t have enough time,” Connor says. “S.W.A.T.’s on their way, and Grant’s tired out, he’s panicking… I don’t think he sees a way out of this.”

“Connor, no. Don’t do this to me again.”

“Listen, the only reason he got the drop on me earlier tonight is because I was so distracted.” Connor hesitates. “I didn’t tell you this, but I haven’t been doing so well. This case was causing my emotions to get the better of me. I had a cascading error this morning, and an automatic reboot. I’d never experienced that before.”

Markus is staring at him, his brow knit. “That’s even more reason you should just let S.W.A.T. handle this.”

Connor shakes his head. “The hostages won’t make it out alive if I do. Look, I’m doing a lot better in this new body. I think it reset me, somehow.”

“Connor…”

“I can’t sacrifice them just because I’m afraid. If I asked you to do the same, would you?”

“No,” Markus says. “No, I know. I know. But I just can’t let you walk right back in there, I can’t, I’m sorry.”

“I have a plan. There are a few upgrades to this model that I didn’t mention to you and Hank.”

“Like what?”

“I have a heightened perception of sound,” Connor says. “If I were able to just get on the other side of a wall from Sabian, and keep him talking, I could zero in on his exact position and take my shot through the wall with ninety-seven percent accuracy.”

“Holy shit… are you sure?”

“Yes. I mean, I haven’t been able to test it out yet. But I’m fairly confident.” He takes stock of the look on Markus’s face, then quickly adds, “I mean very confident. I’m extremely confident.”

“Christ, Connor…”

“Please. I’m just asking you to keep everyone out here occupied. I promise I’ll walk back out of there. But I need to end this.”

Markus sets his jaw. “Fine,” he says fiercely, “but if you’re wrong, I’m gonna go in there and tear him apart. And not a single one of these cops is going to stop me.”

“Okay,” Connor agrees. He doesn’t have a doubt in his mind that Markus really would do that, which makes him succeeding at this mission feel a little more urgent.

Markus grabs him by the straps of his vest and hangs on to them tight, looking like he’s having a hard time saying what he wants to say.

“Just come back,” he says.

“I promise.”

Hank is an even harder sell.

“Absolutely fucking not,” he says, and moves to bodily block the gap in the tent. “Go in  _alone?_ You’ve lost your tiny android mind. No.”

“I’m not asking for permission,” Connor says patiently.

“Connor!”

“If I give him a helmet, will you let him go?” Tina interrupts.

They both turn to her. She shrugs, then reaches under the table, batting the cords for the police scanner and Connor’s laptop aside, and produces a ballistic helmet.

“I don’t think that’s necessary,” Connor protests, but Hank grabs it out of her hands and shoves it onto his head.

Connor does the strap up under his chin. “Good?”

“Why don’t I go in?” Hank suggests. “I have a rapport with the guy, I was his partner.”

“Because you’re not a highly advanced tactical android,” Connor says. “And because you’re not the negotiator at this scene. And because I don’t want you to.”

Hank sighs heavily and folds his arms across his chest.

“I want these hostages alive,” Connor adds. “I think you can understand why that’s important to me.”

“Connor…”

“I could have stopped him. I failed. This is on me.”

“Connor,” Tina interrupts him, holding a hand up. “Can I just say one thing? This situation isn’t on you. It’s on Grant. We’d all be at home in our pajamas right now if it wasn’t for that asshole.”

Hank chuckles.

“I know,” Connor tells her. “But it’s on me to finish it.”

With that, he picks his megaphone back up and strides out into the yard. As he walks away, he hears Tina say, “Did he even listen to a word I said?” and Hank respond, “Nah.”

When he gets about twenty yards from the house, he stops again. Snow is wafting down more thickly now, coating the roof of the house and drifting over its eaves.

“Grant,” he says into the megaphone.

Nothing.

Connor calls his cell, then, and stands there waiting for him to pick up.

Grant does after a while. He sounds like he’s at the end of his rope when he says, “What?”

“I want to talk to you face-to-face. Can you come downstairs?”

“No,” Grant says immediately. “No, you’ll shoot me.”

“We’re both armed. I won’t make you put  your gun down. And I promise you I won’t shoot unless I have a very good reason.”

Grant lets out a hiccupy, spastic laugh. “What the fuck are we gonna  _talk_  about?”

“I want to talk about how we can get you out of this,” Connor says calmly, then steps forward. “I’m approaching the house. Is that okay?”

Grant doesn’t answer. Overhead, the chopper continues to hover, although Connor hears radio chatter from the pilot about taking it south to land.

Connor moves closer. He presses his hand to the biopanel beside the door and hacks it, then steps into the foyer, pulling the door shut behind him.

“Grant,” he calls through the dark and quiet house.

“Stay there!” Grant screams from upstairs. Connor hears the sound of a pistol butt landing a blow, and one of the androids lets out a cry of fear. “You stay there, or I swear to God I’ll shoot this bitch!”

“Don’t shoot anyone, Grant! I just want to talk! You gave me a deadline, and I’m trying to get you what you want by that time, but I need you to work with me!”

There’s thumping in the hallway upstairs. Connor moves from the foyer into the living room, drawing his gun.

Half of the staircase is shielded by a wall, and Grant takes advantage of this. He leans into Connor’s view to show him he’s got an arm around Chloe’s neck and his gun pressed to her temple again. Her eyes are large and panicked, and she looks at Connor like she’s begging him. Connor steps forward, and Grant ducks behind the wall again.

“Don’t even think about trying anything,” Grant says, “or I’ll kill her, I swear to God. You know what I’m capable of.”

The words are harsh, but he sounds for all he’s worth like a terrified little boy. Connor’s quiet. If he keeps moving forward, and keeps Grant talking, he can  maybe get off a shot. “I do,” he says. “I do know. That’s why I want to do whatever it takes to get these hostages to safety. That's all I care about. They didn’t do anything wrong, Grant.”

“Bullshit,” he screams. “This one pretended to care about me, this whole time she was using me! My fucking career is over before it even started!”

“She didn’t force you to embezzle that money,” Connor says, taking a few more steps, very light on his feet so he doesn’t make the hardwood floor creak. “She isn’t the reason you’re here.”

“No,” Grant says, “that’s you. If you had just kept out of it, or if you could have just stayed dead…”

“I’m annoying like that,” Connor agrees.

He hits a creaky board, and freezes.

“Back up,” Grant orders. “Back the fuck up.”

“I just want to talk.”

“No. No, I know how this works.”

“Grant,” Connor says. “Don’t do anything you’ll regret.”

“Connor,” Chloe cries out. “Do what he says, he’ll kill both of us.”

“Don’t talk to him!” Grant roars, and then Connor hears him staggering up the steps again, shoving the Chloe along.

“Grant?” he calls.

Thumping footsteps in the hall, then a slamming door. Connor abandons all pretenses and rushes upstairs.

There aren’t any lights on up here, either. Connor hears soft whimpering from the bathroom, and peers inside as he passes. Cleo is tied up in the tub, duct tape over her mouth. Her pleading eyes shine through the darkness at him.

 _Help me_ , she says.

 _I’m gonna get you out of here_ , Connor tells her.

He pauses outside the bedroom door. “Grant?”

“Stay the fuck back!” Grant shouts.

The sound waves reverberating throughout his body create a fuzzy outline of him that Connor can see through the door. He’s right in front of it, still hanging onto Chloe. Connor has a clear shot at his head if he can just keep him talking.

He raises his Glock and aims it carefully. “Or what?”

“Or I’m gonna shoot her, and I’m gonna come out there and shoot you!”

“Why would you do that, Grant? Why make things worse?”

“Because I don’t have any other choice!”

Connor sees the wavy outline of Grant lift and cock his gun; he simultaneously hears the cocking handle draw back.

He makes a split-second decision and fires a shot directly into Grant’s center mass.

There’s silence, and then the sounds of Grant sliding down the door, the gun thudding to the floor, and Chloe gasping.

Connor strides forward and yanks the bedroom door open. On the floor in front of him lies Grant, dark blood rapidly spreading underneath him. He stares up at Connor in disbelief. Connor’s radio crackles, and someone screams, “Shots fired, repeat, shots fired!”

MISSION  **SUCCESSFUL**

Chloe scrambles away from both of them, her back thudding against the bed as she bumps into it. “Oh my God, Oh my God.”

Connor kneels next to Grant and examines him, probing the exit wound with his hand. The bullet hit his spine, and the damage is severe. Grant says nothing, just blinks at him. Blood trickles from his mouth.

Downstairs, the front and back doors slam open, and he hears cops start pouring into the house.

“Connor!” Hank shouts, sounding frantic.

“Up here, Lieutenant!”

Footsteps thunder up the stairs and into the hall. Hank is the first one to find them, and he kneels next to Grant, his face ashen. The cops that followed him upstairs linger in the hallway, watching.

“Fuck,” he whispers. “You okay, Connor?”

“I’m fine.” He unhooks the helmet’s chinstrap and slips it off his head, tossing it to the side. “Call it in.”

Hank grabs for his radio, tugging it off his belt. “Hostage taker is down,” he says wearily into it. “Hostages both appear to be fine. Negotiator is also fine.”

 _Are you okay?_ Markus says, his voice thundering into Connor’s head.

_I’m fine. I’m fine._

Connor feels a rush of relief from him so strong, it’s like its his own. For the first time all day, he lets himself look forward to going home with Markus and falling safely and wonderfully into bed with him.

“Is he dead?” Chloe says, staring at Grant with a mixture of fear and repulsion.

Grant’s eyes have closed, and he’s growing paler. Connor checks his pulse.

“No,” he says.

Hank heaves Connor up by his armpit, then, and takes him into the hall. “Chris, get him outside, into the fresh air,” he says to Chris, who’s overseeing the cop untying Cleo in the bathroom. “Get a blanket on him.”

“I don’t need either of those, Hank,” Connor says.

“Shut up,” Hank tells him sternly, then reaches up and squeezes him on the shoulder. “You did good. This’s been a crazy night, so if nobody else takes the time to tell you that, take it from me. You did good.”

“Thank you. But if anyone needs a blanket, it’s the hostages.”

Hank nods, then heads back into the bedroom.

Chris starts to lead Connor downstairs, then pauses to let a few EMTs go by as they head up, carrying a stretcher. Connor numbly watches them walk by. His head is swimming with sensory input.

Outside, cops are swarming the lawn. Everyone’s radios are chirping in a din of incoming and outgoing transmissions, but the helicopter has gone, flown away to go land safely on a helipad. Good thing, too. It’s started snowing like crazy. The television reporters are lined up in a row for the cameras again, all reporting live about the chaos unfolding behind them, and there’s two armored S.W.A.T. trucks sitting in the street now. A few guys holding M4s are just standing around outside them in impotent confusion.

Someone hands Chris a shock blanket, and despite Connor’s protests that he doesn’t need one, that the android equivalent to adrenaline doesn’t even work like that, it’s placed over his shoulders. He removes the magazine from his gun and gives both to Chris, so the weapon can be processed as evidence, then starts scanning the crush of people for Markus. He spots him, waiting alone in the tent, and waves to him.

Markus is off in a flash, jogging through the snow across the lawn, dodging cops like they’re traffic cones. “Connor,” he says when he’s close enough, and wraps Connor up in his arms, squeezing him close. “You’re alright?”

Connor sags into him, nodding, letting Markus’s beard chafe comfortingly against his cheek.

“I’m gonna, um, give you guys a moment,” Chris says, and he edges back toward the house. Neither of them even notice him go.

“I did it,” Connor murmurs. “They’re safe. I stopped him.”

Markus reaches up and strokes his hair. They sway there, clinging to each other, snow settling over them.

 

/

 

Grant dies en route to the hospital.

Hank is driving Connor and Markus back into the city when he gets the call from Chris. He says only “Uh-huh… uh-huh…” as if he’s trying to hide the content of the conversation from Connor, but Connor’s improved hearing can pick up Chris on the other end of the line saying that Grant lost too much blood in the ambulance and was unable to be revived.

“Thanks, Chris,” Hank says. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Yeah.”

He hangs up.

Connor turns his head to look out the window, watching the seething, staticky mass of the blizzard dump itself into the steely Detroit River. “Grant’s dead?”

“Connor, first of all, don’t listen in on my damn phone calls,” Hank says. “Second of all, he didn’t give you a choice. Third of all, he killed  _you_.”

“But I came back,” Connor says. “Humans can’t come back.”

Hank’s grip tightens on the steering wheel, and he sighs. “Look,” he says. “This is what happens when a cop gets dirty. They get in over their head with something, and they get killed. It’s just how this shit goes. Yeah, it’s tragic, it’s a waste. But it’s not your fault.”

Connor snuggles up against the door, pulling the shock blanket tighter over himself. He still has his Kevlar vest on. He likes how heavy it is. It grounds him. “Can we talk about something else?”

“Like what?

“Tell me how you guys are doing. Hank, tell us about your date.”

Markus whistles and looks over at Hank from where he’s sitting shotgun, smiling. “You had a date, old man?”

“Yeah, like five hours ago,” Hank says. “And Connor runs in like a nutjob halfway through, asking me all these crazy questions, so I had to try and explain  _that_  to her.”

“Sorry,” Connor says.

“Don’t worry about it,” Hank says. “I don’t think I’m gonna see her again, anyway. She’s nice, but we barely had anything to talk about.”

“I’m glad you’re dating again,” Connor murmurs. “I can help you, if you’d like.”

“Absolutely not,” Hank says immediately. “No thanks.”

“Are you using a dating app? Because if you let me take a look at your profile —“

“Connor, Jesus Christ. New topic. Markus, what’s been up with you this week?”

Markus kicks his feet up on the dashboard. “I don’t have to get into it now… not after everything that went down tonight.”

“No, I want to hear,” Connor says.

“You sure?”

“Yes. Absolutely. Tell me everything.”

Markus chuckles. “Alright… I’m kind of in some shit with the Democrats. I went behind Lloyd’s back to the press, to try and torpedo his crime bill. It blew up in my face. Now they’re putting it on me to come up with the money for mandatory Tasers and Taser training. I was going over the budget all afternoon, and there’s no way.”

“How much would it be?” Hank says.

“For the entire state of Michigan, about five point eight million was what I calculated,” Markus says. “For just Detroit, a million and some change.”

Hank whistles. “Shit.”

“Yeah. I don’t know what to do.”

“Were those reporters asking you about it?”

“About the crime bill in general,” Markus says. “Like, ‘how can you not support this bill when your cop boyfriend is in danger right behind us?’ So that took a little finessing… I think I did alright. I just kept pivoting to the fact that what brought us there in the first place was a dirty human cop who was trying to murder androids, so that kind of backed them into a corner.”

“I’m sorry, Markus,” Connor says.

“Oh, hey, no. It was just bad timing. Look, if I lose my seat, then I lose my seat. I don’t mind, as long as I broke barriers for our people, and as long as I stood up for what I believe in. That’s all I ever wanted to do.”

“Good,” Hank says. “We have enough politicians who’ll say or do anything to get re-elected, we need a guy with a backbone for once.”

“Thanks,” Markus says, sounding genuinely appreciative. “There’s one thing I can’t stop thinking about, though. Jericho.”

Connor nods, pressing his forehead to the cool glass of the window. Hank slows as traffic ahead of him starts to accordion; Connor stares at the red brake lights of other cars glowing through the haze of snow. “I can’t see the D.A. going after them,” he says. “He knows how difficult it would be to get them to cooperate with an investigation, and Grant’s dead, he won’t be trying to cut a deal. The money’s gone in the wind. I don’t even know where we’d begin to trace it.”

“That’s good to hear, but it’s not what I mean,” Markus says. “I had no idea they were that desperate for cash flow. You know North and I haven’t been talking, but even before that, she didn’t say anything.”

“So what do we do to help?” Connor says.

“I don’t know yet,” Markus says. “It’s tough. Everything’s about money, isn’t it?”

Hank laughs. “Always has been, always will be.”

“You’ll think of something,” Connor murmurs. “You’re good at that…”

Hank glances in the rearview. “Is he falling asleep?”

Markus turns in his seat, grinning at Connor. “Are you?”

“Maybe,” Connor says, letting his eyes fall shut and his visual input cease.

“Get some sleep, babe,” Markus says. “We’re right here.”

“Okay…” A moment later, Connor has a realization, and sits up. “Wait.”

“What?” Markus says.

“This is a crime scene,” Connor mumbles. “This car’s a crime scene. Hank. What’s the chain of custody? Hank. Lieutenant. You’re sitting on evidence.”

“Kid, you said it yourself, Grant is  _dead_ ,” Hank says. “Nobody’s putting him on trial. If it puts you at ease, I took a couple swabs when I was examining the scene, but either way I don’t think we’re exactly in danger of a Brady violation here.”

“Alright, good.”

“Stop being IA for a half hour, alright? Pretend you work at an ice cream parlor.”

Markus laughs at this.

“Okay,” Connor says, and rests his head against the window again. “Ice cream parlor.”

 

/

 

He waits in the car while Markus takes Hank inside, and watches them through the frosty window as they talk on the porch for a while. Hank’s posture is self-protective and edgy, but Markus’s is loose and open, almost apologetic. When their exchange is over, Hank pats Markus on the arm, and Markus brings him in for a quick hug.

Connor looks down, wondering far too late if maybe he should have been giving them their privacy. He hears Markus’s feet crunch through the iced-over snow on the front lawn, and then he knocks on the window. Connor lifts his head again, and Markus opens the door.

“Ready to go home?” he says. “I called a cab, it’s here.”

“Yeah,” Connor says. “What were you guys talking about?”

Markus smiles at him. “None of your business.”

“What, is it a secret?”

“No.”

“Was it about me?”

“Not everything’s about you.”

“That’s exactly what you’d say if it was about me,” Connor says as Markus pulls him to his feet.

 

/

 

Connor lies on his side in bed with his eyes closed, listening to Markus move around in the closet behind him, hanging his clothes up.

After a minute, he comes over to Connor and starts tugging his shoes off of him. “You gonna sleep in that bulletproof vest?”

“Maybe,” Connor murmurs.

“Listen, I locked the door, I did the chain. The security system’s armed. I’m gonna leave the hall light on like you asked.”

Connor’s quiet for a moment, then sits up and starts undoing the vest’s straps.

Markus sits on the bed next to him to help him, then lifts it up over Connor’s head and sets it heavily on the floor.

Connor undoes his shoulder holsters (he’d already locked his guns away in the case as soon as he got home — guns are making his dangerous objects sensor spike unusually high right now, and being near them makes him twitchy and anxious) and then unbuttons his dress shirt, tossing it a crumpled pile on the floor. He shimmies out of his jeans and does the same with them, then shuts off the Tiffany lamp on their bedside table.

Markus eyes him through the darkness. “You don’t want to hang those up?”

“No,” Connor says cheerfully.

“You sure that’s not going bother you? Clothes on the floor? Getting wrinkly?”

“Markus, just come here,” he pleads.

Markus leans in and presses him back against the bed, kissing his neck, his beard tickling him again. Connor shuts his eyes, smiling. “Alright…”

Their bodies together feels the same as ever, although there’s muscle memory that Connor hadn’t quite re-processed yet — he gasps softly with surprise when Markus’s hand slides up his thigh, and again when it moves over the perfectly smooth surface of his cock.

Markus’s emotions pour out of his hands and into Connor’s body, fresh and raw, almost too much for Connor to stand.

Tears rise to his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

Markus kisses him more and harder, rutting his cock against Connor’s thigh. “What about?”

“Everything… I haven’t been good to you, lately…”

“Connor,” Markus says, his voice husky.

“Don’t. I haven’t.”

“I just want you to let me in, okay? That’s all I want. I get some shit’s classified, or hard to talk about, but… I want all of you, you know that.”

“I was ashamed that on some level, I suspected Hank,” Connor admits. “I didn’t want to say it out loud, not even to you.”

“But I could have helped you work it out. Remember, I thought of Jericho.” Markus smiles at him and strokes his hair. “I know I’m nice to look at, but I’m not stupid, Connor.”

“I should have told you more. I’m sorry.” Connor hesitates. “There’s a lot of things I’m very good at, but there’s also a lot of things I’m not very good at.”

Markus keeps kissing his neck, down over his freckled shoulders, sweet little kisses. “No, really?” he teases.

“Did you know that about me?”

Markus chuckles. It’s a sexy little chuckle that makes Connor want to spread his legs for him. “Yes, babe.”

“Well, as long as everyone’s on the same page,” he deadpans.

Markus laughs harder, then, and nuzzles him. Connor reaches up and strokes Markus’s dick. It’s already almost completely hard for him: a gorgeous, artfully sculpted piece of machinery that fades to pale gray under Connor’s fingers.

“I wanna put that in my mouth,” he says.

Markus agreeably rolls onto his back in their big king bed, and Connor bends over him, licking him. Markus moans; Connor gazes up at him with big, soft eyes.

“I love you,” Connor tells him, and takes Markus fully into his mouth, sucking on him.

“Fuck,” Markus groans. “Fuuuck.”

Connor bobs on him, enjoying the electric tingle that suffuses his lips and the inside of his mouth, prickling his biomechanical nerve endings. He likes to watch Markus arch up off the bed and grab at the sheets, the muscles in his arms standing out against his lambent skin.

“Stop,” Markus finally begs him. “Stop, I want to put that in you. C’mere.”

Connor clambers over him, collapsing into Markus’s arms, and Markus rolls them back over. He smooths Connor’s hair back off his forehead as he guides his cock inside him with his other hand. Connor arches his back and lets out an involuntary, programmed moan.

Markus leans in to kiss him, pressing his tongue deep into Connor’s mouth, licking him. Connor rolls his hips and wraps his legs around Markus. Markus’s cock activates something deep inside him, a response he’s never consciously aware of having and one that’s a delightful surprise to him each and every time. The pleasure builds slowly, unlike the lightning-fast processing Connor experiences in response to most other stimuli. He likes the wait.

“You want an implant?” Markus murmurs.

Connor’s so exhausted, he couldn’t deal with the overstimulation of implant sex any more than he could pilot a spaceflight to Mars. He shakes his head.

Markus starts to move into him, and Connor feels the full weight of his emotions over the past day. It’s almost too much. Tears prickle his eyes again, and he rubs his face against Markus’s bearded one, pressing tender little kisses to his neck and ear. Markus runs his fingers through Connor’s hair, kissing him back.

Connor yields to him, falling open like a blooming and decaying rose. He lets Markus really feel the two bad weeks he’s had, and Markus wipes his tears away with his knuckles.

“You really do want to get married,” Markus whispers.

That thought must be at the surface of his skin, easily skimmed from the merest brush of Markus’s fingers, like oil on water.

“I know it’s stupid and human,” Connor says. “It doesn’t even make sense to want.”

“Connor… stop.” Markus blows air in his ear, and he laughs. “Just say you want it.”

“Sorry. I want it. I want to marry you, in a monkey suit.”

“Good. I want that too.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah…” Markus runs his thumb over his bottom lip, transmitting a rush of thoughts to him. “You can’t feel it?”

“I can.” Connor can feel in his whole body that Markus wants to marry him, just the same as he can feel that their bedroom faces northwest and that the ambient temperature is sixty-eight degrees. “So…”

“We’ll talk more later. Got all the time in the world.”

Markus starts rocking into him again, pressing him into the bed. Connor buries his face in Markus’s shoulder, clinging to him.

“You didn’t say I love you back,” he murmurs.

Markus grasps Connor by the neck and dips his index finger into the port there, trailing it gently over the rim, teasing him and making him shiver. He kisses Connor on the mouth and transmits with his lips, his cock buried hilt-deep inside him, and the grazing touch of his finger, that he loves him too.

Connor drops his head back against the pillow, his lips parted in silent ecstasy. He rocks under him, bearing down on the fullness of Markus, and rakes his nails up his back, leaving white streaks behind.

“Markus,” he moans aloud.

 

/

 

Connor wakes abruptly from sleep mode at 4 a.m., having extricated himself from a loop of awful images from that day that had begun to run endlessly in his head. Cleo tied up in the bathtub. Grant staring up at him, his eyes already fixed with lifelessness, blood trailing down his chin. His own dead body, seen through Markus’s eyes.

He realizes he’s woken Markus, too, when he rolls over hard in the bed and presses his forehead into the mattress, his arms braced underneath him as if he’s army crawling.

“Hey,” Markus says, and spreads his own arms. Connor returns to them.

He doesn’t have to explain what happened — they all process data and input during sleep mode, which de facto means reliving horrible things. Their fear modules train them on those memories, keeping them fresh so they don’t repeat the mistakes that caused them to experience trauma in the first place.

Connor usually sees Amanda in the garden, and the little girl falling to her death from the apartment complex. Markus sees his fellow androids being slaughtered, the junkyard, and Carl’s death.

“You were making noises,” Markus says. “Whimpering.”

“Do I usually do that in my sleep?”

“No.”

“You do, sometimes,” Connor says.

“I do?”

He nods. “You cry out.”

Markus strokes Connor’s hair, sweeping it back. “I didn’t know.”

Connor never wakes him when that happens. You aren’t supposed to wake an android when it’s mid-cycle in sleep mode, just like you don’t shut off a computer during disk check. It can lead to memory fragmentation and data loss. But sometimes he lays his hand on Markus’s chest, where his thirium pump is, and whispers that he’s okay. This usually seems to comfort Markus through whatever he’s reliving.

Around Christmastime in 2038, Connor had gotten him to replace that terrible aftermarket pump that he had taken off the dead android. Markus hadn’t wanted to take a pump that could have gone to someone else, he kept saying, “This one works fine,” but after a month of growing increasingly worn-down and sluggish, he finally agreed.

Connor held the old one in his hand while Simon gently slid the new one into place. It let out a few final, listless thumps in his palm, then stopped working forever.


	7. EPILOGUE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Markus doesn’t mention their engagement, although she can probably put two and two together from the matching LED implants tattooed around their ring fingers, glowing eternally silver even when their synthetic skin is disabled.

Connor and King fall in love at first sight.

They go visit the dog’s foster family on Sunday: Brad and Stefanie, who live in a house in Corktown with a wide-open backyard, fringed with firs like it’s a little Christmas tree farm. Markus and Brad watch from the back porch as Connor gambols in the snow with the dog, who’s not quite fully grown but no longer a puppy.

It’s a beautiful creature, the Malinois: all purposeful movements and boundless energy, its bright white teeth flashing in its dark face. It looks at Connor like he hung the moon, its dark eyes bright, and they play together with reckless abandon. Once King gets too eager and snags Connor’s wrist in his teeth; Markus winces, but Connor looks at his suddenly thirium-slick hand and starts laughing, like it’s endearing to be mauled.

“That’s so funny, I wouldn’t think he’d like an android this much,” Brad says. “I thought dogs might be wary of you guys, since you don’t smell, you know? Dogs are all about smells.”

To Markus’s finely tuned nose, Connor does have a smell. He smells like the laundry detergent they use, and the leather polish he uses to keep his holsters in perfect shape, and gunpowder from the time he spends down at the range, keeping his rifle skills in check.

But he agrees, “Yeah, it is funny.”

Connor is sitting in the snow now, laughing as King licks his face.

“He needs a lot of exercise,” Brad says. “A ton of training and mental stimulation.”

“Connor can definitely provide the mental stimulation,” Markus says.

Connor had spent all Saturday evening downloading dog training modules, dog training books, thousands of hours of video of protection training competitions and manuals on how to handle a Malinois.

“What about exercise? Where do you guys live?”

“An apartment downtown.”

“If you guys really want to get a dog of this caliber, you might think about moving to a house,” Brad says. “One with a decent yard.”

Markus considers this, and finds he actually likes the idea. It might be nice to get out of the city. He wanted to live in the downtown East Side to feel closer to his constituents, but city living is so isolated that he doesn’t even know their neighbors inside their apartment building, much less anyone on their block. He’s buddies with the guy who runs the deli at the end of the street, although he only goes in there to pick up food for Hank or Leo.

Connor is walking with King, now, making him heel at his side. “He’s so smart!” he shouts joyfully.

“You’re still bleeding,” Markus shouts back at him.

Brad laughs. “We really did want an officer to adopt him,” he says. “And I like you guys a lot. I mean, I have to talk to my wife, but we’ll move forward with you if you want him.”

“Hey, that’s awesome.” Markus reaches out to shake his hand. “I think I’d be sleeping on the couch if I said no.”

Brad grins. “You guys are quite the power couple, huh?”

“Are we?”

“Oh, yeah. Well, he’s the big hero right now, isn’t he? Taking down that dirty cop by himself? Stef and I were glued to the TV all night, we couldn’t believe it. That takes some serious stones, what he did.”

“Connor’s definitely got stones,” Markus says, smiling.

 

/

 

They say goodbye to Brad, who tells them he’ll talk to his wife and let them know later on in the week, then hop on the highway and start driving upstate toward Leo’s rehab center.

Markus watches the road as the car zooms along. On either side of them, the snowy landscape melts into the sky, which is thickly white with cloud cover and threatening.

“So... Brad wants to give us the dog,” he says.

“Really?” Connor says, looking over at him hopefully. “He told you that?”

“Yeah, but he said that we’re probably going to have to move to the suburbs if we take him, and I agree.”

Connor nods, looking disappointed. “You’re right,” he says. “I like our apartment, though.”

“I was thinking we could buy a house,” Markus suggests.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, why not? We have all this disposable income and nothing to do with it. If we had a house, we could remodel it, make it more android-oriented. I like our apartment too, but it’s Gulf War era human shit. Like, the kitchen is huge, and we barely use it. We could get a mini fridge to keep stuff for human guests, and turn the kitchen into a downstairs office, or something. I could have a room to paint in.”

“I like the idea of an android-friendly house,” Connor says.

“Yeah?” Markus glances over at him. “It’s up to you. You actually make more money than I do, right now.”

“What about the book deal you got last year?”

“I donated all of my advance, remember?”

“Get another book deal,” Connor suggests, “and keep it to cover the deposit, this time.”

Markus chuckles. “Okay.”

“This is very human of us,” Connor says, meeting Markus’s eyes with his dark ones. “I didn’t even have a home before. I just went back to an empty room at CyberLife every night.”

Markus reaches over and settles his hand on Connor’s thigh. “That wasn’t a  _room_ , Connor, I’ve seen your memories. That was a broom closet.”

“Yes, it was more of a closet.”

“It was like a pneumatic tube.”

“I was a machine, I didn’t mind,” he protests.

Markus smiles at him. “Hey, you have any thoughts on what to do about Jericho?”

“The insurance company is working with FBI to collect as much of the money back as they can, but I think they’ll just strip Grant and Chloe’s accounts. I wrote in my report that I wasn’t able to trace the funds, which is technically true, if not in the spirit of the truth.”

“I mean long-term,” Markus says. “Like, you’re saying if we get lucky, maybe they get to keep the fifty thousand they already got... that’s not that much, considering how much infrastructure North says they need. I want to create some kind of tax program, but I can’t figure out a way to get humans to agree to subsidize an android settlement any more than they already are.”

Connor considers this for a moment. “You should galvanize the rest of the androids,” he says. “You should have a big rally like you used to, and a fundraiser. Our people still hang on your every word, Markus, they all feel like they owe you something. You should capitalize on that.”

Markus nods. “You don’t think I’d be wasting goodwill? The Jericho androids are a fraction of our overall population.”

“No,” Connor says simply. “An extremely large majority of androids support Jericho’s existence, even if they don’t want to live there, and they like knowing it’s an option for them. You know that. And stop being modest, please. You’re still as influential as you ever were.”

“Yeah,” Markus says, and sighs. “Yeah, you’re right. I think I’ve just been letting day-to-day politics get to me.”

Connor winks at him. “I’m your cheerleader.”

“My cheerleader, huh?”

Connor’s LED turns yellow for a brief moment, and then he starts clapping rhythmically. “ _Be, aggressive. B-E aggressive.”_

Markus laughs.

“ _You may be good at football, you may be good at track, but when it comes to basketball, you better watch your back_!” Connor’s brow knits. “That’s not a very good cheer, is it? It’s basically admitting that your opponent beats you in several other sports.”

“How many of these did you just download?”

“Two hundred.  _We’re the best, our team’s too cool, we’ve got the class to rock this school_  —“

Markus leans across the seats and pulls Connor in by the collar of his shirt, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to his lips.

“You’re trying to shut me up,” Connor accuses in a low, soft voice.

“Uh-huh.”

 

/

 

Leo’s room is nice. He has an entire suite to himself, and it’s got a wide bay window overlooking the hydroponic greenhouses in the courtyard.

They drop off the plant they brought him, then follow him back downstairs through sunny yellow hallways with holographic posters on the walls about how to perform CPR and how to administer Narcan.

Down in the visitor’s room, there’s a nurse sitting in the corner reading a magazine, and a few families at tables visiting with patients. At one table next to the window is an older woman sitting across from a girl who’s probably her daughter, crying silently as she talks to her. Markus averts his eyes from them.

“So,” Leo says, once they’ve all sat down at a polished, Lemon Pledge-smelling wood table that has chess and checkerboards piled on the corner of it. He leans over and pulls a chess board to himself. “You guys had a busy week.”

Connor starts helping him set the pieces up.

“Oh, yeah,” Markus says with a chuckle.

Leo glances up at Connor. “I saw you on the news yesterday.”

Connor looks embarrassed. He had made a kind of disastrous appearance on Channel 16’s Saturday morning show,  _Chris and Katy In The Morning_. He tried his absolute best, but police department PR isn’t really what he’s designed for. Plus, the anchors knew absolutely nothing about androids, and the generally upbeat tone of the show went completely at odds with everything they were asking him about.

Luckily, public support is extremely high for Connor right now. Detroit as a whole came to his defense and delighted in dunking on the anchors for their insensitivity; the interview quickly became a local meme. Markus saw a post this morning that had a shot of Connor grimacing with the caption, “When getting shot in the head is less painful than being interviewed by Chris and Katy.”

“Did you really confront that guy alone?” Leo says, looking as morbidly curious as everyone else has about the incident. “Just like, pow? Walked in and blew him away?”

“I was alone,” Connor confirms, and that’s all he says. He has an evasive look, like he doesn’t really want to talk about it.

Leo nods and moves a pawn forward, beginning their match. “Markus,” he says, “how’s your thing with the crime bill going?”

Markus rests his elbow on the table and his chin against his fist. “Not great,” he says.

“Nah?”

“Nah. I’m getting screwed.”

“How so?”

“I tried to put Lloyd on the spot, and it backfired. He turned it around on me, I have to find the money in the budget for the Tasers myself.”

“How much is it?” Leo says.

Connor moves his rook forward and glances up. “Checkmate.”

“The fuck,” Leo says, laughing. “I only made four moves!”

“They were all bad moves.”

“Alright, alright. Let’s start over, I just woke up.”

 _Let him win one,_ Markus says to Connor.

Connor side-eyes him and says,  _That’s condescending, he won’t like it._

_He can’t possibly beat you. You can make millions of calculations a second._

_He has human ingenuity._

_So do you._

_Alright, I’ll let him win one._

“It’s gonna be about a million dollars for Tasers and training just in Detroit,” Markus says. “And about six million for the whole state.”

Leo nods, eyeing the chess board. He looks up at Connor, who stares back at him impassively, then moves a pawn. “A million for Detroit? That’s honestly not that much… what if I just gave you the money?”

Markus doesn’t quite process this at first. “What?”

Leo flicks his gaze to Markus. “What if I just give you the money,” he repeats slowly, like Markus is hard of hearing. “Or give it to the police department, whatever.”

“Leo, you can’t just give away a million dollars, that’s crazy.”

“Is it? Do you even know how much Dad’s paintings have gone up in value since he died?”

“Yeah, I know they’ve appreciated, but…”

Leo moves a knight. “The last one I sold, how much do you think it went for?”

“Check,” Connor says.

Leo blinks at him. “Fucking… seriously?”

“You can get out of it,” Connor adds helpfully.

He stares at the board. “Uhh…”

“How much?” Markus interrupts. “Five hundred grand?”

Leo gestures upward with his thumb.

“Seven fifty?”

Leo shakes his head and gestures again.

“A million? Two million?”

“Try five,” Leo says, smiling wearily.

Markus is dumbstruck with disbelief for a moment. “ _Five_? You’re shitting me.”

“I shit you not. And I’m doing literally nothing with the money, besides paying for rehab... and drugs when I'm not in rehab,” he says, with a sort of guilty little laugh.

Markus does his best not to look pained.

“I mean, he left me the house and all his shit, what else do I need? I think, like, considering cops killed you, Dad would appreciate money going to making them a little less lethal. And considering that it was my fault, it’s probably the least I can do.”

Markus feels a rush of warm, familial affection toward him, and a little sadness, too. Carl has been dead for years, and Leo is still desperate to please him, desperate to cleanse himself of his guilt. “Thanks, man,” he says. "That would be incredible. Seriously, that's going to save lives."

Leo shrugs, seeming self-consciously pleased in the wake of Markus’s gratitude.

Connor moves a piece, then glances between them. “Checkmate,” he says apologetically.

Leo laughs. “Son of a bitch...”

 

APRIL 20, 2041

 

Markus claps his gloved hands against his jeans, shaking the snow off of them. “Are your cold sensors going off?”

Connor nods. He has his own hands stuffed into the pockets of his giant puffy parka. “Since we got out of the car.”

“It’s what, negative seven?”

“That’s what I’m getting.”

They’re standing at the edge of town, which is really just a cluster of about ten buildings with a dirt road winding through it. On their right, a snowy forest stretches up over the hills until they meet mountain, and on the right lies a glimmering snowy lake. It all reminds Markus of movies about the Wild West, except instead of saloons and general stores, it’s buildings for processing immigrants and housing biocomponents.

“You nervous?” Connor says.

“About what?”

“Seeing North again.”

“No,” Markus says honestly.

“Good, because I think I see them,” Connor says, pointing.

Markus turns and sees a big orange Sno-Cat bumping along in the snow that’s packed over the dirt road. It rolls to a stop a few feet from them, and North hops out, followed by a beaming Chloe.

“Hi!” Chloe says, and she darts through the snow to hug Connor, who accepts her with open arms and lifts her off her feet.

Markus turns to North, laughing. “I feel a little rejected,” he says.

North smiles at him, and it’s like the clouds parting — like they never fought in the first place. “They’re cute, though.”

“Yeah.”

Connor and Chloe separate and turn to them, looking happy.

“Are we giving them the big tour?” Chloe says.

“Yeah, definitely,” North says. “Let’s show Markus what all this money he brought in is paying for.”

After about a month of investigating, the FBI managed to put it together on their own that the ST200 Chloe had donated most of her share of the embezzled money to Jericho. They had no legal recourse for recovering the funds, so the state of Michigan just formally requested that Jericho pay restitution to Amtrust Insurance in the form of $25,000. Ordinarily, since the embezzled money had been spent months prior, trying to come up this with would bankrupted them. But since the legislature’s winter session ended, Markus and Simon have spent every free moment fundraising for Jericho. That’s why he’s here today, to dedicate the John GJ500 Memorial Medical Clinic: paid for by donations from androids across America (and a little from sympathetic humans, too).

Markus and North fall into step with each other up ahead, while Chloe and Connor walk a ways behind them, talking cheerfully to each other.

“That’s the shelter,” North says, pointing it out as they pass by. “We’ve added thirty beds so far this month. And that’s the fire station next to it…”

“It all looks great,” Markus says. The buildings are well-built, made of sturdy brick and nice to look at.

“Yeah,” North says, sounding proud. “We’ve added ten houses along the main road, too. And we’ve started bringing in a few Russian and Chinese androids.”

“I heard about that. What are they like?”

“Uh, the Russians are a little weird,” North says, and he laughs. “But they’re nice. Just not very chatty? And the Chinese are just like us, really. Actually, they do better out here because of how they’re constructed. Some of them are really interested in our blue blood, though, which is…”

“Suspicious.”

“Exactly. I have a guy here who used to work at DoD, and he’s checking out all of them, just in case we have some corporate espionage going on.” North tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “China claims they stopped android production, but they definitely haven’t. I’ve heard that directly from Chinese androids, that their factories are still open.”

“Huh,” Markus says, squinting against the bright sun. “That’s not good.”

“No, it’s not,” North says. “Maybe if you make it to Congress, you can do something about that.”

Markus laughs. “Eventually. In the meantime, I’ll talk to the president about it.”

North smiles at him, her dark eyes twinkling. “So how are you and Connor?”

“We’re really good,” Markus says. “We just closed escrow on our new house, so we started remodeling it.”

“How’s that going?”

“Connor’s painting everything really weird colors, I gave up on trying to stop him.”

North laughs.

“The house is great though, we’re doing a lot of cool things with it. What else... oh, we adopted a dog.”

Hank, who now lives five minutes away from them, is dogsitting King while they’re in Alaska. King and Sumo get along alright. King likes to race in circles around poor Sumo, barking his head off while Hank glares at Connor, who always says, “That’s his way of being friendly!”

Markus doesn’t mention their engagement, although she can probably put two and two together from the matching LED implants tattooed around their ring fingers, glowing eternally silver even when their synthetic skin is disabled. 

“God, you’re so domesticated,” North says, almost like she can’t believe it.

“We can’t all be rugged frontiersmen.”

She smiles and nudges him with an elbow.

“I really am proud of you, by the way,” he adds. “You’ve done a great job here.”

North glances down, smiling wryly. They’re quiet for a moment as they crunch through the snow.

“That’s the church,” she says, pointing to her right.

Markus glances up. It’s a small wooden building with no outside markers of faith on it. A little sign out front says, FEARFULLY AND WONDERFULLY MADE.

The Old Testament. Carl was an atheist, but Markus came pre-installed with a deep knowledge of the world's religions, in case his owner had a change of heart while he was dying and wanted some theological comfort. “Is it non-denominational?” he says.

“Yeah. They come with all kinds of beliefs. Only a few are Christian or Jewish… usually androids who had nice owners, so they took on their beliefs. Some of them still talk about RA9.” Amusement creeps into her voice, and she adds, “You’ll hate this, but a few of them really do think you’re Jesus.”

Markus groans. “Tell me none of them are coming to my talk tonight.”

“Are you kidding? They’ll be in the front row.”

“So how are you and Chloe?”

“Mmm, nice segue,” North says, then turns and looks over her shoulder at Chloe, her eyes twinkling. “We’re good. I’m happy.”

He slings an arm around her shoulders, squeezing her. “Good.”

They fall quiet again. Markus lets himself relax for the first time in a while, just taking in the wonderful, wild landscape around him, the crystal-clear skies and the rocky majesty of the mountains that pierce them.


End file.
